


The Secret of Flight

by Ivorysilk, skyblue_reverie



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25948399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivorysilk/pseuds/Ivorysilk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyblue_reverie/pseuds/skyblue_reverie
Summary: “The secret of flight is this -- you have to do it immediately, before your body realizes it is defying the laws.”― Michael Cunningham, ‘A Home at the End of the World'AU.  Born into a world where a rare genetic mutation means that some people are born with wings, John has succeeded in hiding his “shifter” status for all of his adult life.  According to U.S. law, exposure of his true nature must strip him of every human right.  When it's a choice between keeping his secret or Rodney's life, the choice is easy for John; it's the aftermath of that revelation that will change everything for not only John, but all of Atlantis.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 58
Kudos: 108
Collections: McShep Big Bang 2020





	1. Fly Away, and Be at Rest

**Author's Note:**

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>  [](https://imgbox.com/Pg3uerb7)  
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Rating and Content Warning: I'm going to say M (for violence, including violence against children, but nothing too graphic. I initially had sexual content, but alas. Alas. You’ll see.). 
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> Disclaimer: I own not these characters, this concept, this universe, or anything much, really. I do own a very nice, very old coffee maker, however. You can’t have it. I don’t think they make them anymore.
> 
> Gratitude: Many, many, a thousand thanks to a lot of people, but mostly to my cheerleaders and betas, nagi_schwartz and skyblue-reverie. It is not an exaggeration to say that this story would not have been written without them. If you do not like it, trust me when I tell you you would have liked it less without their intervention; if you do like it, they should get at least half the credit.
> 
> Secondary Creator Credit: The gorgeous, glorious art is by skyblue-reverie. (It is also contained in a [separate art post](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940182), so you can gaze upon it without the words in the way, and now with a bonus intriguing commentary about the process of creating the pieces and the thought behind each one--which I always find fascinating, because I can't art, and I always love reading about creative process.) It was inspiring, motivating, and guilt-inducing. She created it when this draft was super-rough, and I couldn’t _not_ finish the story as a result. Please heap praise upon her head in both this post and that one, for she deserves it all.
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> More notes, gushing and gratitude, and suchlike babbling at the end.
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> ***************************************

***************************************

**_Chapter 1:_ ** __

_Oh that I had wings like a dove!  
For then would I fly away, and be at rest.”  
\--Psalm 55:6_

***************************************

[ ](https://imgbox.com/I01cEyId)


John had always loved to fly.

When he was young, his mother had told him stories: of valleys and rivers and lakes, the mountains to the south and west, where she and her people soared free. She had been from a flock of fliers, and there was nothing, she had told him, nothing like the freedom and thrill and safety of flying with your kin. 

She’d told him stories: of the Alps, of the valleys of France, of the beaches and oceans of Greece. To places they could fly freely, openly: not scared and hidden and secret. 

John had loved those stories. He’d loved them. He’d loved her.

But his father had been American, and very rich, and even though he visited a lot, he’d wanted his wife and son to come to America, to live with him. “It would be safe,” he’d said, looking sad and earnest. “I miss you,” he’d said, “and John is starting school now. He deserves the best, doesn’t he deserve the best?” “Come with me,” he’d said, and eventually, his mother had agreed.

He remembered, still, travelling to the U.S. with his father, as a kid, for the first time. He’d been so excited, first time in a plane, a different kind of flying. His father had had a private plane, and he’d had his own little television, snacks, and staff who smiled at him and called his father Mr. Alcester. It had been great.

He’d missed his mother, though, soon after he’d arrived in D.C., almost as soon as the plane had touched the ground. The airport had been big and frightening, and all the lines and people scary, and John had mostly hidden behind his father who had whisked him through with the power of his smile and money.

His mother had planned to follow, only a few weeks later, but she’d arrived in Baltimore. That, his father had said, had been the problem. The plane had been rerouted because of some documentation issue, or a weather issue, or a flight plan issue. John, later on, never could remember. All he remembered was his father’s agitation, his father yelling on the phone: it wasn’t what he’d planned.

John still remembers waiting for her, the memory fresh and bright in his mind, even now, over thirty years later. He’d slipped past the sliding doors, run into the secured area, and been able to see her, just across the hall, as she waited in line. And then he’d seen her smile slip, as they’d spoken with her, her face becoming still and frightened. And he’d seen them point to another room, a smaller, glassed in room, where she’d gone with her bags.

And then he’d seen everyone in the hall become still, as faces turned, as everyone had focussed in on the room, as the lights and alarms had started blaring.

“Shifter!” he’d heard, whispered, then louder. “Shifter!”

In the room, his mother had been backing away as the guards came in, large and uniformed and their faces set and angry, and obscured her from view.

He never saw her again.

***************************************

His father had hated that he could fly. He’d hated his son’s wings, and John had wondered, sometimes, in those dark days after his mother had gone, if his father hated him. He’d forbidden John, after she died, from ever even unfurling his wings, even at home. 

But then his father would hug him, crushing him to his body with tears in his eyes, and John would know, somehow, that as long as his father was with him, he’d be safe. And then he’d push his father off, and complain, and his father would tell him to go do his homework, and that would be that.

John had never known if his father had hated that John could fly when his father couldn’t, because flying reminded him of her, or because he was scared that someone would find out, and what they would do to them both if they did.

Maybe all of it together. 

And then his father died in a car accident, only five years after they’d taken his mother. Five years, and John was thirteen, barely, alone and frightened and filled with loss, because he’d loved his father, and his father had hated that he could fly but had loved him.

There had been no family to take him in right away. No kindly spinster aunts, no uncles with families of their own into which John could blend, no grandparents able to care for him. No, John’s only grandfather in the U.S. was in a long-term care facility—top notch, private, because only the best for an Alcester—and his grandmother had died before John had been born. And while John knew he had family in Europe, had been told, time and again, that if anything happened that’s where he would go, he’d never been there, and it would take days, the social workers explained, for them to track down his relatives and for them to arrive.

His father had kept to himself. John had been schooled at home. His father had sat him down, once, and explained what to do if he needed an adult. But his Uncle Peter wasn’t around--he was off hiking in India or something--and no one could reach him either. There was no one else. There were no neighbors, in their fancy gated neighborhood, that knew John well enough to take him in for a few days. No friend’s parents who were willing to have John come stay for a night or two, and his former nanny confessed she was an illegal immigrant and despite her tears, she wasn’t willing to sign up for anything official.

They’d look, the social workers had promised, hurrying him along as he packed the only bag they'd allow him so he could be processed for entry into a temporary foster home. He’d hugged his puppy goodbye before they’d hauled Rufus off, and they wouldn’t tell him where Rufus was being taken or when they’d bring him back. Rufus would be fine, was all they’d say, and the foster home will be very comfortable, you’ll like it, you’ll see. It wouldn’t take long; he could just stay with a nice family until his own arrived. His father had left him enough money to be well looked after, they’d said, not to worry. But John had been worried, and frightened, and upset. He’d never been so scared in his life, he’d thought. He’d been frightened even before the social worker had, without even asking, pulled out a strand of his hair and handed it off to her colleague. She’d smiled at him, he remembered, her eyes flat and grey, as she’d urged him into the back of the little black car before she’d started driving to where they’d said he had to go.

John remembered being so, so nervous, sitting silently in the back seat by himself, not knowing where he was being taken. The social worker had spoken to him at first, a little, as she drove: telling him her name was Theresa, asking him about school, his friends, what he liked to do for fun. Then her phone had rung, and after that he remembered that she didn’t speak, but had simply turned the car around. John remembered he’d looked up, once, and met her cold, cold, grey eyes watching him in the rear-view mirror. He’d shivered from the chill, and stared out of the window after that instead. But when she’d parked the car in front of an imposing wrought iron gate, topped with barbed wire and a security checkpoint, and had hissed, “Shifter” at the uniformed guard, his fear had turned to abject terror.

The day his mother had been taken had been the worst day of his life, he’d thought.

The day his father had died, he’d thought his life couldn’t possibly ever get worse.

Except that as it turned out, it really could. 

***************************************


	2. Eyes Turned Skyward

***************************************

_**Chapter 2:** _

_“When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”  
– Leonardo DaVinci_

***************************************

  
[ ](https://imgbox.com/Hwix80zv)

_Twenty odd years later_

Going to Atlantis was the leap of faith he could barely believe he was taking, and when he’d arrived—

It had been the dream he would never have dared to imagine, and every now and again—pushing Rodney off a balcony, flying a jumper, flying a _city_ —

It hadn’t been just one thing, in those first few days. 

It was the look on Rodney’s face, when John had made the map of the solar system come alive overhead, without really knowing how’d he done it. It was the manic gleam in Rodney’s eye, as he’d asked John to come run an experiment that would let John shoot him. It was Rodney’s laugh, when he’d finally figured out some new piece of Ancient tech, when he beat John at chess, when his remote car was in the lead. 

It was Rodney and the way that he made the city that John lit up _work_. It was Rodney, and the way he understood this strange new world, differently but no less deeply, than John. It was Rodney, and how much he loved Atlantis, just as much as John did. 

Plus, it was stupid things. Like the fact that Rodney knew every Batman, in every TV show or movie, as well as every comic iteration, and had ranked them in his head as to which one was the best (West, for reasons that made no sense) to worst (and there were three that were tied, including the one from the Batman v. Superman movie, which John actually agreed with). Like the fact that Rodney would stay up for three nights straight to work on the septic tank issues, but also to take part in a Lord of the Rings marathon (not the extended version, despite Rodney’s protests, because lines had to be drawn) so Ronon could watch the movies with them (he thought the Ents were stupid but agreed that Eomer was a badass). 

The fact that for New Year’s, not only did Rodney rig up the long-range sensors (without telling anyone) to allow the Rose Bowl to be broadcast straight to John’s quarters, but that he also made snacks and stayed with John during the entire four hour broadcast on New Year’s Day, even though it took place at 0400 Atlantis Standard Time. 

His laugh, his ever-moving hands, the fact that he teased John relentlessly about his love of planes and warships but made sure that John was the first one to know when he found anything he thought John might like, and that he would drop everything to make sure John had the access he wanted. Elizabeth despaired of them both, much as she was amused by them, but sometimes (the solar system destroying was a good example, and not one of John’s prouder moments, as it had been as much his fault as it had been Rodney’s) even she was powerless against the two of them.

Because sometimes, sometimes even Teyla and Ronon didn’t understand. Sometimes, it was just him and Rodney against the world (even if Rodney had no idea who John really was, even if John knew, somewhere deep down, that Rodney might turn his back on him if he ever learned what John really was), and John had never had that before. 

John had, years ago, considered taking his own life. Not that he had a death wish, no matter what Rodney might think (occasional indifference, depending on the stakes, was not quite the same thing) but when it had become too much, when he wasn’t sure he could keep running, and when the alternative was them finding him—

John knew he’d rather die than go back. 

But in Atlantis, sitting in the mess hall with his team beside him, eating terrible chocolate pudding like it was the most delicious thing in the world and laughing at Ronon teasing Rodney, Teyla’s gentle voice in his ear—

Rodney beside him, grumbling about whatever stupid thing he was going on about but with a light in his eyes that belied his complaints—

John knew he’d arrived at the closest thing he’d ever have to a home. And it was a home he’d die to protect.

***************************************

The thing was, it was really stupid. The latest batch of marines had arrived, fresh off the boat, less than a week ago, and so John had set up a standard training mission to give the newbies a taste of off-world experience, Pegasus-style. Forcing his team to go along was a last minute decision, but after the god-awful mission last month, he’d figured--he didn’t even know, later. He guessed he’d figured they could do some simple drills and team bonding and stuff, let Ronon and Teyla and even Rodney show off a little bit, relax. He’d just wanted--and the team had really needed--something simple and easy, an ego-boost. Ronon had been looking more grim than usual, lately, and Rodney had been--

Rodney had just looked unhappy. John had thought … he’d thought, maybe a break, away from everything, and PX6-299 was a decent enough planet. Weather temperate, population low and pretty friendly for the right kind of coin, fairly unremarkable. And it had worked. It had worked perfectly, and after a day on the planet, finally eating real food, spending time just the four of them, walking along the cliffs as the planet’s red sun hung low in the sky, John had congratulated himself on making, for once, exactly the right decision.

Until.

Until, walking along the cliff, and John wasn’t even sure how it happened, but Rodney--

Rodney, somehow, took one step the wrong way, one of his feet slipped, and he was falling. Falling, off a sheer cliff face into the abyss below. 

It wasn’t even a choice. Not really. When John saw Rodney falling—

It was the work of a second to strip off his shirt and shift, allowing his wings to fan out behind him. He knew, he knew he could catch Rodney, didn’t even know how he knew, he just knew—

But it was still jarring when he did actually catch Rodney, all 183 pounds of him, slamming into him abruptly with both velocity and gravity bearing him down, no matter that he’d been braced for it and John had to strain, strain against the force of it, to even out their descent and rise upwards, slowly, slowly, Rodney wrapped around him and clasped tightly to his chest, the weight of him warm and heavy against his skin, and then as the wind currents hit him just so —

Floating, soaring, and then alighting, gently like a leaf on the surface of barely frozen lake, letting Rodney stagger, balance and straighten before he let go, before he let his wings, retract, before—

“Colonel?" yelled Rodney, his face red with panic and fear and something else John couldn’t begin to figure out. “Sheppard? Oh my God, John.”

And then, behind Rodney, “Sir,” from Lorne. “Sir, I have your shirt.” Lorne was standing quietly, respectfully, in front of at least six of the youngest looking marines: all of them looked like a feather could knock them over. Some of them looked angry or revolted, a couple looked distressed. John wanted to swear them to silence, and knew that a few of them—maybe even all of them—would do it, but he also knew that he couldn’t, that it wouldn’t matter, that the secret was out.

“Abomination,” he heard, whispered on the wind, carried on a breath, and John knew he’d already lost.

“I had understood—” began Teyla slowly, caution overlaying every word, but John couldn’t bear to let her finish.

“You’re right,” interrupted John. “You’re right. But—but Rodney. I couldn’t let him fall.” He couldn’t. He couldn’t lose Rodney; it had never been an option.

“I don’t understand,” said Ronon. “What’s going on?”

“How did you even get into the Air Force,” said Rodney, less question than statement. “How did you—”

“I needed to fly,” said John, who was now Sheppard, because John Alcester was dead, and he had used another man’s DNA to get this far, and he didn’t even know if he was talking about what he’d just done, or everything he’d done until now. “I didn’t really have a choice. I had to fly.”

For a moment, then, it felt like the world froze. Everyone and everything, holding their collective breath, and everything felt too bright, too still, and too fast, all at once. But it was Lorne, in the end. Of course it was Lorne, who had always been an exemplary second. “Sir,” he said, as he handed John his shirt. “Sir, we will need to restrain you and escort you back. You understand, it’s protocol.”

Lorne paused, then, and John understood. Slowly, slowly, he picked up his pack, took the shirt from Lorne, and just stood there. He nodded at Lorne, and then--he stepped back.

Right over the edge of the cliff. And dropped.

He knew he’d get only the one chance. 

He didn’t stop falling until he was under tree cover and it was almost too late. He hit anyway, and hit hard, but he folded his wings in, rolled and got up, and started running. Straight for the gate. He didn’t stop.

John had done two tours in Afghanistan, and had been trained in special ops. He’d had SERE training and combat training and had completed however many missions on a shitload of alien planets. Even so, he hadn’t expected this to be easy. Military protocols were very clear on what to do when encountering or needing to contain a shifter. And so, he’d been expecting bullets, he’d been prepared for bullets, but--but no one shot at him. He wondered why.

“Sheppard,” said Rodney, right into his ear, and for a second it was a shock, until he realized that Rodney had opened a private channel. “I’ll be quick, and then you need to ditch your radio. I’ll bet you’re kicking yourself for not planning for the Zombie Apocalypse with me now, aren’t you?”

And John remembered, when three missions ago had found Rodney and him investigating some Ancient ruins on M5R-792. It had been nice. M5R-792 had a population that was not quite friendly, but not overtly hostile, and so they’d been considering it as a secondary alpha site as well. As they’d left, Rodney had stashed a backpack near the entrance of a cave they’d passed, muttering something about the Zombie Apocalypse, before turning to John, and answering his raised eyebrow with a defensive, “I know things are different, now with Elizabeth--well, now that she’s no longer in charge, and, well, stranger things, right? It’s always good to plan for a rainy day, and to be honest, I’ve never quite trusted the IOA since that business with--well, it doesn’t matter. I carried it, this is all personal, and if I want to waste a few MRE’s, well, then, that’s my prerogative, isn’t it? Don’t worry, they’re mostly mac’n cheese, because if you ask me they are -- well, I hope it doesn’t matter, but I threw in a couple of turkey for you, and a few of those blueberry pies for Ronon, plus some chicken for Teyla. Just in case.” 

John hadn’t been able to say what he’d really wanted to, instead clapping Rodney on the back and chuckling, saying, “Don’t worry, Rodney. Your brain will always be safe with me.”

It wasn’t strictly true, given the dangers of their situation, but Rodney had relaxed, and that was the important thing, at that moment. He’d relaxed, John knew, because he’d trusted John. He’d trusted him, even if John had never trusted Rodney back, entirely. He hoped Rodney would one day understand. 

He hoped they all would.

Rodney was still talking.

“I put together whatever I could think of, more for me than you, really, and I’m sorry I think there’s only one turkey because I really do prefer the mac’n cheese MRE’s over--anyway, that doesn’t really matter now. I just--I didn’t know I just wish you’d trusted--well, that’s not important now either, is it, the point is, that’s as good a place as any until we figure out better. Ronon is on his way to the DHD, he should be there in about an hour and a half, give or take, with luck, and as soon as you’re through, he’ll shut it down for you if it’s still active. As soon as I can, I’ll have Zelenka wipe the address from the database along with the details of your sub-Q transmitter until we can figure out how to shut it down remotely, because it was never meant to be shut down from afar, so that’s going to be--right, doesn’t matter now. We’ll take care of it as soon as we can. Major Lorne doesn’t know which of these new guys can be trusted, and even though he’s got them maintaining radio silence and running useless sweeps, you’d better be fast, because one or two of them is likely to go rogue and make their way back. You have to get off the planet. You’ve got--well, I can’t really--just, John: be fast. Ronon said to wish you luck, and that if he could do it for five years, you can do it for a few weeks until I figure out better, and then he threatened me, as if I need any--Look. I’ll do what I can from this end, we all will, but I want--I should--you should know--damn, I’ve gotta go--” 

And Rodney cut off, but there wasn’t much more to say. John needed to get to the stargate. He pulled out the earpiece and then leapt into the air, unfurling his wings and finding an air current to soar on for a moment so he could throw the earpiece as far from himself as he could. Not that it mattered--of course he was heading straight for the gate, and of course they knew he would be, whatever Lorne had told them. It was his only option, even if he’d had no Rodney to clear his way.

He renewed his efforts, straining as he soared, letting the lucky tailwind work for him, one last surge, and hoped like hell Ronon wasn’t far behind. He couldn’t risk any eager young Marine looking for glory pursuing him. The military was always alert to shifters, particularly adult ones, because they were almost always escapees. The idea of any shifter making it to adulthood a free bird, so to speak--well, the odds were near impossible. There was a separate class in basic on the importance of containing shifters, and everyone, officers and enlisted, knew that containment was considered a priority mission whenever one was identified. It had been drilled into each and every one of the guys here, and none of them had been on Atlantis long enough to question anything. As soon as Atlantis dialled in for their next check in, the SGC would be notified of the situation, even if Lorne failed to mention it. Which meant that anything could go wrong; he knew that even as he thanked all that was holy that Ronon was who he was and was on his team, because his team had his back and there was no way anyone in this galaxy could be faster. All he had to do was get to the stargate, he knew. Once through, he’d get to Rodney’s promised stash, and then the rest would be up to him. 

Even as the stargate approached, blessedly deserted even sixty-two minutes later, he did not let up, although he did silently thank Rodney as he moved towards it and swooped into a steep descent towards the DHD, the pattern of symbols clear in his mind as he began dialing even before he reached the ground. 

As the wormhole formed, John bent down to tear through his backpack, tossing his radio, before standing back up with his pack and taking a breath. Then he dove straight for it.

He didn’t pause, and he didn’t look back. 

***************************************


	3. The Tyranny of Petty Things

***************************************

**_Chapter 3:_ ** __

_“I fly because it releases my mind from the tyranny of petty things.”  
– Antoine de Saint-Exupery_

***************************************

  
[ ](https://imgbox.com/HbMgrpEV)

Three hops later--with a pause on the first one to dig that expedition sub-Q transmitter out of his arm, because he didn’t want to take any chances, and to mutter a heartfelt prayer of thanks that the _Daedalus_ had been more than a full day away--found John on MK7-481, which had been one of the rejected alpha sites for its colder-than-cold off season. But before they’d realized it went to -70 degrees for four months of the year, he and his team had mapped a good chunk of it, and he’d reviewed every report every other team had submitted to him about the place. He didn’t know if it was because he was a shifter or if it was just a natural gift, but his sense of direction and knowledge of terrain were one of his strengths. He knew the most defensible positions; he knew which areas had arable land and good food sources. He hadn’t been dropped blind into unknown terrain; he knew exactly where to go and how to get there. 

He didn’t pause to wonder at Rodney’s loyalty, or to consider that he still had Lorne’s respect. He just couldn’t, not right now.

The problem, John knew, was that all of that info on each of the less than twenty known alpha and beta sites was accessible to everyone in Atlantis, and none of it required a higher security clearance or much effort to decipher. He had no idea how Rodney intended to run interference--and John had no doubt he would--but he couldn’t count on Rodney being able to keep it up indefinitely. He had to become untraceable. And to do that, he needed to keep moving before he dropped by M5R-792 as quickly as he could to pick up the supplies and any message Rodney might leave for him, before he hopped away again. He didn’t even know how Rodney would get him a message, but he had faith that Rodney would, and he wanted to give Rodney whatever time he needed to do it. And so until then, he just needed to keep moving and ration out what he had already, which he figured would easily keep him for a week, maybe even two if he was careful.

He just hoped Rodney would understand. Because Rodney was a fantastic scientist and a great asset to the team--but Rodney wasn’t military, and he was no strategist. On top of it, Rodney didn’t have a deceptive or sneaky bone in his body, and had a very low tolerance for anything he deemed stupid--and even though John loved that about him, he also knew that in this type of situation, Rodney wouldn’t immediately get it. John couldn’t just find Rodney’s cave and hunker down and wait. Even if none of the indigenous population found him and word never got back to Atlantis, and even if John knew every nook and cranny of this and a dozen other places, it stood to reason that anyone looking for him had all this information too (because whatever anyone thought, his reports were actually up to date and complete, Rodney). Better information, even, because they had resources and mapping equipment and data cross-referencing algorithms that John did not. 

He hoped Teyla and Ronon could help Rodney process it, because even if Rodney wanted to deny it at first, he knew better than most what John was up against. The U.S. military had every bit of paper about every alpha site filed away and examined by experts. The military also had deep pockets, a team of experts, and every scrap of paper that had ever existed on John since he’d registered at the Academy filed in triplicate. Even if Carson hadn’t said or documented anything (and Carson hadn’t, because John let him take blood for his unofficial side projects every week), every other medical document, random blood test and report he’d filed outlining his thought patterns would soon be common knowledge. The military would not spare any expense in tracking down a rogue shifter, especially not one trained like John. There would be no safe haven, not anymore--at least, not for a long while. Even with the SGC transmitter ditched on another planet, he had to keep moving or he was a sitting duck.

He’d learned that years ago, and learned that the hard way. Escaping a government facility, after he’d been microchipped like an animal and locked up three levels underground and behind an electrified fence in a guarded complex hadn’t been easy, even with his father’s money and contingency plans (which his Uncle Peter had put in motion once he’d returned, better late than never), but it had been nothing compared to the years of running that followed, until he’d gotten far enough away and it had been long enough that they couldn’t track him anymore or at least weren’t as actively trying. His Uncle Peter hadn’t done it without help, either. He’d never have managed it, hiding a starving kid who’d been pampered and sheltered until he’d been “acquired”. But there were people and families, a whole network of them, helping shifter kids at every risk to themselves--there was no money that could properly compensate them. He’d wondered why’d they’d done it, sometimes, still wondered to this day. Some of them were making up for bad decisions, misplaced trust, or hoping to find their own children who’d disappeared into the system, but some of them … some of them were just _good_. And John had been lucky, and his father very organized and well-connected, and so he was smuggled out. Not everyone escaped. Very few escaped. The irony of him joining the military years later, and that the military was one of the few options for those in his situation--hiding in plain sight--was not lost on him.

He missed his uncle, though. Uncle Peter had died while John had been rotting in an Afghan prison. John had never risked getting in contact, or even seeing him, before Afghanistan--his uncle’s last words to him years ago were to explain that they could never see each other again, but that he loved him and wanted him to be safe--and then it had been too late.

But this time, John had some advantages. He wasn’t a weak child, hidden by those with limited resources, and he wasn’t unskilled. Despite all military might and resources, he could survive a while, he could hide, and best of all: he had a team. A team who--whatever else might have happened between them, whatever this meant for them, for John-- he trusted would back him. And despite everything he hadn’t said, right now when it came right down to it, John trusted Rodney. That was it. He trusted Rodney. Rodney knew that John had memorized each and every one of the alpha sites, including M5R-792 and PX6-299. And if Rodney had picked M5R-792 for the safest place to pick up supplies, John knew it would be. 

He let himself fantasize, for not quite five minutes, about the IOA and the brass maybe just letting him go, after all he’d done. Just discharging him and letting him live out his days here in this lesser used alpha site--and then killed that fantasy. He was now a deserter, even if he hadn’t been before--on top of everything else, and with the high profile of his command of a coveted, high security clearance project, there was no way the USAF was going to let any of it slide: joining the Academy, lying his way into their ranks, lying about who and what he was, escaping before they could try to acquire him. 

And, an adult shifter, fully trained? With the research knowledge about his kind and how best to use them that they had undoubtedly gained over the last 30 years? There was just no way. It simply wouldn’t be possible for them to let it slide, no matter what he’d done until now.

He didn’t even allow himself to ache at the thought of Atlantis, her bright lights and calm ocean waves. He didn’t have time to mourn his former life, his team, his friends, Rodney. Because that life had never really been his, that city hadn’t been the home he’d deserved, and he’d always known it. 

Teyla and Ronon, especially, would understand, John reminded himself. They’d explain it to Rodney, make sure he understood.

The idea that Rodney wouldn’t understand why John had never told him, that Rodney would feel betrayed, that Rodney might even hate him--well, John couldn’t, he couldn’t think about that. Not right now, anyway. Because even now, he knew he could count on Rodney, and that was all that really mattered, in the end. Besides, he had more pressing concerns right now, assuming he even saw Rodney ever again. 

The sun was high in the sky, and he forced himself to find a small shaded area where he could grab a couple of hours of sleep. It had been eighteen hours since the debacle on PX6-299, and he was exhausted and already faintly hungry, but right now that was all the time he could afford. When he woke up, he’d dial the next gate.

***************************************

“How could this even be?” demanded Woolsey. “Your commander--your military commander! Is a shifter and no one even noticed? This is--”

“Sir, with all due respect,” replied Major Lorne, “I’m not sure what you’d like me to say. He was the military commander before I ever got here. I had no reason to believe--”

“Well, we have to retrieve him. Of course. You know how seriously the IOA will take this matter; if it wasn’t bad enough he is a shifter, for him to have escaped--we’ll have to run his DNA. The government keeps records, above my security clearance, of course, despite how high it is, but sometimes there is a match to a database of criminal shifters that--”

“Mr. Woolsey, does it not disturb you that the government has a database of people that you have no access to?” asked Teyla, her voice seeming only lightly curious, unless you knew her better.

“According to the UCMJ,” intoned Woolsey, “these creatures are considered criminals, and their files are always classified because to reveal their kind would cause mass panic--”

“You’re talking about Sheppard,” growled Ronon, taking three steps towards Woolsey, who took a half step back. Teyla put her hand on Ronon's arm.

“You don’t believe that,” said Teyla, one elegant eyebrow raised.

“I’m not military,” replied Woolsey. “And whether I believe it or not,” he added, suddenly seeming small and tired, “it’s what he signed up for.”

“There are many worlds--other countries, even, that do not feel the same, as I understand it,” Teyla said evenly.

“I assume you’ve been speaking with Dr. McKay, and he has told you of his country’s shelter of these shifters,” said Woolsey nervously, as Ronon loomed over him.

“Sateda revered its fliers,” declared Ronon, banked rage in his eyes and voice.

“As do the Athosians,” confirmed Teyla, her voice clear.

“Nevertheless,” said Woolsey, visibly taken aback at the rising hostility in the room. “U.S. military law is very clear, and Colonel Sheppard is--I mean he was--a member of that military, and subject to its laws. This _base_ is subject to those same laws. The creature we know as John Sheppard--Subject CD614639JELX--will be retrieved, and dealt with accordingly. As the administrator of this base, I don’t really have a choice, at least, not without more information. In the meantime, I will speak to the medical staff about any records there may be in the infirmary about the former Lieutenant Colonel, and whether we can find a record of his DNA we can submit to the authorities.”

“Sheppard is not,” said Ronon very quietly, standing up to his full height, “a creature.”

Mr. Wooley took another step back before he realized it, and stopped. He took off his glasses to clean them, at a loss for words. “Nevertheless,” he began, and then continued, “I’m sure we can all agree we at least have to find him first.”

***************************************

The thing was, Rodney commented quietly to Zelenka, that finding John was actually not a good thing. Sure, he wanted to find John, but it was better for John that he not be found. Ever. Or, at least, not until they knew how to protect him. So for now, no John was a safe John, and--

It had been three days. The IOA had given Atlantis standing orders to find Sheppard and turn him over to the SGC, but they hadn’t officially been able to find him, and they officially didn’t even know where to look. Trying to track him through the Stargate, Rodney had explained, was simply not possible, and with some glitch in Atlantis’ personnel database that took four hours to restore by which point the Colonel’s--” _former Colonel’s, forgive me_ ”--transmitter was no longer functional--they didn’t even have a starting point.

“McKay,” said Rodney, tapping on his earpiece. “Oh, Mr. Woolsey,” he said, and Zelenka and everyone in the room froze. “Oh, oh you did, did you? Oh, and Dr. Dobson--oh, Dr. Biro, oh, oh, I understand. Oh, I see. A match, you say? To an inmate? How long ago? Oh, I see. You do know that he would have been all of thirteen at that -- it doesn’t matter, does it. Of course not. I have to go, oh, look, a crisis in the sewage system, no, surely you don’t want backed up sewage in our drinking water, do you, very important, gotta go, goodbye Mr. Woolsey.”

“What is it?” asked Ronon, as soon as Rodney disconnected, following Rodney who was already heading out the door. 

“I have to--I can’t--I need my own lab. Right now.”

“McKay!”

It figured that because of that whole mess with Jeannie, Rodney now knew a whole bunch of things he didn’t want to know. After Wallace had died, and John had been super squirrely about those circumstances, Rodney had looked into their databases. Apparently, back some thirty odd years ago, when Devlin Medical Technologies had been a small company, it had made its mark by creating lifespan powered pet microchips--a technology which the government had believed could be able to be adapted for use in shifters. Fast forward ten years, with a government contract, a top-secret lab in which D.M.T. scientists were able to experiment with few constraints, and a visionary and amoral CEO, Devlin Technologies was able to perfect its technology. Another fifteen years expanded its operations out of the darkness and into the still top-secret but less covert SGC program and the making of the subcutaneous transmitters the modern-day SGC used. Over the years, D.M.T. had built its way up into a multinational corporate entity, with billion-dollar government and medical contracts across the globe. They still, however, made a good deal of pet microchips. It was sort of amazing how much the average person would pay to make sure their Spot was safe. 

The first implant they’d developed for use in shifters, however, way back when they’d initially been offered the project, had a few known drawbacks. The mechanism of the early models generally paralyzed and then killed the subjects shortly after implantation. But given the liberal testing atmosphere, Devlin had been able to tinker with the mechanism until it was stable, until once implanted successfully it secured itself and then emitted a low-level transmission frequency sufficient to be picked up by powerful sensors--if they were close enough. These prototypes didn’t cause overt harm to their implantees--but they also weren’t of much use to track unless the sensor was in proximity of the chip. The only thing that made these early implants better than a regular pet microchip was the way they latched on to the subject implantee’s spine, wrapping around the spinal cord in such a way that once implanted, they were impossible to remove without severely injuring, paralyzing, or outright killing the implantee. 

Interestingly, rather like the tech the Wraith used on Runners as well.

Over the years, the transmitter (including its failsafe) became smaller and more powerful, but the mechanism had always remained the same. There was no known surgical way to remove it, and of course no licenced surgeon could perform the surgery, or any surgery, on a shifter--at least not legally. 

Unbeknownst to Rodney, even though he should have known, should have guessed, why hadn’t he thought--but he cut himself off. That line of thought was not helpful, not now. He’d missed it, and it was too late. Because John had been implanted with one of those very early prototypes, years ago. And through his DNA records, his implant had been identified. And although that old transmitter remained weak, the modern sensors that could track it? Nowadays, with Asgard technology? Those sensors were infinitely more powerful. Those sensors could find a needle in a haystack. Those sensors could find John. And in the past John might have been able to run, he might have been able to hide, but not anymore. Now nowhere--no galaxy--was safe.

“They found--” and Ronon had to stop him by stepping in front of him and Rodney even then tried to go through him, shaking and wild-eyed, “you don’t understand! I have to--I have to stop them, _please_. They’re going to--Carson had records on John, as it turned out. A _lot_ of records, hidden in some encrypted unofficial file, and they found them. I helped Carson bury them--no, of course I didn’t know what they were!--and I created a small dummy file for Carson so no one would know to look, but--but it turns out, after John had that run in with Ellia, Carson needed help to treat him, and so he roped in Biro, who kept records of her own, which she turned over when Woolsey inquired. She didn’t even know why he was even asking, she’s just, you know her, she’s just happy to help and so apparently, when they asked she just said, ‘Sure!’ and they ran John’s real DNA, not whatever Carson had in his trumped up file. Don’t you get it? There are no shifters that live free in the U.S.! None. Apparently, none are born, and any who enter are deported. Statistically, that’s impossible, but somehow, they maintain it’s true. They simply don’t exist. Not officially. If they find them, they are considered illegals and confined and shipped away, wherever possible, or detained indefinitely in ‘humane conditions’. But they do have databases and research facilities, and one of those facilities is rumoured to house extremely ‘valuable exotic creatures’ that the military uses in highly classified research that no one ever talks about, and there are scientists who work there that no one ever sees or talks to. And there are rumours, and stories, and secret reports, of what happens to those creatures. Many apparently are born in captivity, or captured young. Most never survive to adulthood.”

“So you’re saying--”

“I’m saying that they’ve identified him, which means they can track him. And unless I can somehow stop them, they’re about to find John.”

They were already searching, and it was too late. They _would_ find him; it was only a matter of time. Caldwell had somehow managed to ensure the _Daedalus_ was out of commission but the _Apollo_ , manned by Ellis, was on its way, told to spare no resource, a full retrieval team on board, and already running long-range scans starting with every alpha site in the database. They were only three days out.

John was a sitting duck, and there was no way to even send him a warning--not that a warning would help. He didn’t even know if John would know about the implant, if they’d told him what it did. He would have been a kid. It would have been painful. It would--Rodney couldn’t think about it. They were going to find him. They were going to find him, and they were going to--

Rodney wanted to throw up, despair engulfing him. 

“It’s Bates,” he said, tuning back in as Ronon shook him, demanding to know what he meant. “He left Atlantis before you, but he’s never liked John. Ellis is bringing him. But John--he’s got a tracker, just like you did, once, but this one is human built and I don’t know if John even knows it still works. There’s nothing I can do. They’re going to hunt him down like an animal, like the Wraith tried to do with you. These retrieval teams, they’re brutal and--and there’s nothing I can do, Ronon. There’s nothing I can do.”

And when Ronon went silent, gripping Rodney’s arm in support, warm and firm, Rodney knew. It was over.

And then Ronon shook him again. “Shut up, McKay. He’s not dead yet, and we’re gonna keep it that way.”

And Rodney looked up into the face of fierce determination that was Ronon, and then he nodded and sat back up. “Right. Okay. Back to work. What are you thinking?”

***************************************

John spent four days hopping between planets, rationing what he had on him. He was somewhat notorious in Pegasus, and so he tried to avoid any densely inhabited sites, even though he used his knife to cut his hair as close to his scalp as he could, grateful that his beard grew fast, and let himself get dirty and tanned. He shed everything Atlantis, keeping only the bare minimum of supplies he needed to survive, dropping his tac vest, his holsters, anything that would make him stick out, just in case he ran into anyone, trying to look as little as the former Colonel Sheppard as he could. He planned to get to M5R-792 by day five, by which time his trail hopefully would have gotten cold, and Atlantis hopefully would have given up a little, by which time whatever ship they had called--probably the _Daedalus_ \--had arrived, and the chaos of reorganizing meant that Rodney could slip him whatever message was needed, because he had no doubt Rodney was monitoring the proposed rendezvous point, however Rodney could. 

He was playing it out a little long, he knew. It was partly strategic, and partly just--once he picked up those supplies, that would be it. His last connection to home. And he just wasn’t ready. He never would be, but --

Day Five.

Tomorrow, before dawn here, on G5L-634 and just after dusk there, on M5R-792. He’d timed it carefully, so he’d have the cover of shadow for his trip coming and going. He wouldn’t linger, either, tempting as it would be. He couldn’t afford to. He’d--

He approached the gate, flying high and as quietly as he could, soaring wherever possible. But something wasn’t right. He tilted his head, listened. Twilight on any planet was usually filled with sound, but this was--quiet. Too quiet. Ominous. He had a bad feeling. 

The gate was in sight, though, and he couldn’t linger or dally. He folded his wings and plummeted into a deep and rapid descent.

He cursed himself as the steel net deployed and wrapped over him too fast for him to evade, military-grade and impossible to work himself free, interrupting his trajectory neatly.  
The fleeting thought that Rodney had betrayed him made his despair sharp until he saw Ronon emerge at a dead run, roaring with all the primal fear and anger John could not voice, a moment before realization hit. Shifter Recovery: John recognized it from his worst nightmares. As he braced for impact, the unit sent to retrieve him ducked out from behind their brush cover and the chute attached burst open, slowing his descent. He had no way to brace for impact, which was bruisingly hard, but no longer fatal. John was not grateful. 

He had never meant to go back alive.

***************************************


	4. Far, Far Away

***************************************

_**Chapter 4:** _

_The wind is blowing over the grass.  
It shakes the willow catkins; the leaves shine silver.  
Where are you going, wind? Far, far away  
Over the hills, over the edge of the world.  
\--Richard Adams, ‘Watership Down’_

***************************************

  
[](https://imgbox.com/gYcGQEao)


_Three Days Earlier_

Shifter Recovery Units were Special Ops, deployed to retrieve known shifters. They were efficient, ruthless, and accepted only the best of the best trackers and strategists. And so of course, Ellis had brought a Shifter Recovery battalion with him on the _Apollo_ , and jurisdiction for Subject CD614639JELX now lay with them. Bates, apparently, was in charge of this particular op--it was where he’d gone, after Atlantis, and it was a perfect match for his rather unique skill set.

And Rodney knew Bates had never forgiven Sheppard for Sumner. For Bates, this was personal. 

“Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard,” Woolsey had begun, when Bates had arrived at the debrief, “was very popular on Atlantis. He’s saved the base numerous times, if the reports are to be believed.”

“If the reports--” sputtered McKay. “Are you kidding! _I_ was there! Those are my reports, you--”

“How lucky,” cut in Bates smoothly, “you’ve all been. A shifter has been in command of you, all this time, and none of you apparently even suspected. You know, or should know, how unstable they are. How their powers of mind control are equal to or more powerful than anything the Wraith can exert. You have all been very fortunate that nothing worse has occurred; once we retrieve him, I promise that the SGC will conduct a _full_ review of everything that has occurred here, starting with the death of Colonel Sumner and the awakening of the Wraith in this galaxy, to the eradication of numerous indigineous populations as a result of the creature’s actions.”

Rodney was so angry he could feel the pulse in his temple pounding. “Perhaps,” said Woolsey, “but this is Atlantis. It has been cut off, and essentially self-governing, for quite some time. Surely the need for delicacy, for careful management, is apparent. Aside from which, Colonel Sheppard’s actions were at great risk to himself. Perhaps some leniency--”

“There can be no corners cut in the safe retrieval of a shifter, sir, surely you can understand that. It’s protocol. Once retrieved, and he will be retrieved, you can be assured, we will follow our protocols. Don’t worry, Mr. Woolsey. These protocols are humane and necessary. The subject will be retrieved, and although we will need a week on base to refuel and resupply, and for my men to rest, we will then quickly be on our way. In the meantime, the SGC is compiling a list of appropriate candidates to replace the military commander of Atlantis. I understand,” and here Bates smiled, as if conferring some coveted favour, “that Colonel Ellis has even applied.”

“If you remove Sheppard and Ellis comes here, I will resign,” threatened Rodney, his voice no longer high pitched and loud, but quiet and cold. “And so will the smarter half of my staff.”

“Dr. McKay,” said Bates, looking Rodney over and smiling slightly, “you are under contract with the SGC. You wouldn’t want to break that contract, now, would you?”

“Watch me,” snapped Rodney. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”

“You’d be surprised,” smiled Bates. “Your contributions have certainly been appreciated, Dr. McKay, but you should know that the SGC has been … concerned about the amount of autonomy you’ve been granted here, and about some of your actions, as well. And there was discussion, when a certain report was received, about the destruction of some planets as a direct result of your actions. About whether those actions constitute a war crime.”

“A war crime?” repeated Rodney, taken aback. “I didn’t--no one said--”

“Your Dr. Weir at the time was able to … persuade those factions that they would be incorrect to prosecute you,” said Woolsey, almost apologetically, “particularly as the planets were reportedly uninhabited but … but Dr. Weir is no longer around, unfortunately. And a breach of your contract might cause certain people to … shall we say, revisit your actions.”

“You cannot be serious,” declared Ronon. 

“Who is this, and why is he even here?” demanded Bates. “I understood this was an alien, and he doesn’t have security clearance--”

Ronon took a step forward. “I’ve been cleared by your SGC.”

“He has,” confirmed Lorne quietly.

“For field operations. Not for this,” challenged Bates, standing his ground as he looked up at Ronon looming over him.

“Well,” said Teyla, moving to put a small hand on Ronon’s arm, “then perhaps if our presence here is no longer useful, we should retire. Colonel Bates, Mr. Woolsey,” and she stepped towards the door.

“I’m going too,” announced Rodney. “Mr. Woolsey, let me know if anything sensible is planning to be done. Otherwise, I have things to do.”

“Do not,” cautioned Woolsey, holding up a hand to pause their exit, “discuss this matter with anyone. Gossip runs rampant on bases like these, and it is up to us to quell any rumours. This is need to know only, do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Teyla, when neither of the other two men responded. “I think we understand very well.”

***************************************

“You’re gonna help them,” said Rodney. 

“No,” said Ronon. 

“No, no, listen. You have to offer to help. I hacked their feeds, and they’ve found Sheppard on G5L-634, and they’re sending their units in the morning. One of us has to be there; it’s the only way. You’re the best tracker we have, the best tracker anywhere, and we’ll convince them to take your help. Once you get there, I’ll show you how to jam his signal and with luck, I can even figure out how to fry the thing remotely somehow. I haven’t yet, but I’m working on it. I know, I know, I’m close and I know I have to work faster but I’m -- I swear I’m doing the best I can.”

“We know you are, Rodney,” said Teyla reassuringly. “John would not doubt it.”

“It won’t matter if I’m too late. But for now, getting Ronon there is the only thing I can think of to help. It’s the only thing I can think of to help him.”

“All right,” said Ronon.

“I’ll work harder,” said Rodney frantically. “If I just had a bit more time--”

“I mean, I’ll go. If you say this will help, I’ll do it. Just tell me what I need to do.” And Rodney, eyes red-rimmed and hair dishevelled, looked up at the first hopeful thing he’d heard all day,. “McKay, we love him too,” added Ronon.

“What--” began Rodney, shock in every line of his features.

“Just know that you are not alone,” cut in Teyla, her smile gentle, and her words as honest and sincere as she always was.

Rodney stared for a moment, speechless, before he nodded and re-focused, “Right. Okay, look, I’m going to make it so easy even my niece could do it, all you’ll have to do is--”

***************************************

And yet, and yet. Despite all of Rodney’s planning, and projections: it didn’t work.

Ronon returned from G5L-634, growling nearly non-stop, right after Bates radioed Woolsey requesting a medic and adding that his mission had been successful, the subject secured, and he intended to make a formal complaint about “that alien” or, as Woolsey had said, “I assume you are referring to Specialist Dex?” The wormhole engaged a scant half hour later. 

Before even leaving G5L-634, they’d had one of their own medics--apparently, there was at least one specialist on every Shifter strike force--thoroughly sedate John or, as they called him, the ‘subject’. This was as per protocol for the transportation of these types of subjects, explained Woolsey, sounding very much like a very nervous man trying to remain calm. And so John arrived in Atlantis with his face and upper torso bare, covered in bruises and loaded on a stretcher while everyone and their brother gawked at him. John would have hated that, thought Rodney, watching John lie there insensate, vulnerable and exposed, the object of everyone’s blatant scrutiny.

Rumours on Atlantis were rampant--opinion had always been divided in their little ex-pat community with respect to shifters--slang for an anomalous winged mutated creature--and the fact that a good chunk of the Atlantis folk were either Americans or military just made the suspicion worse. Opinions and anecdotes and anonymous classified studies about the violent tendencies of shifters or their innocence and persecution were the talk of the town and impossible to quell. Ronon, in particular, had been visibly astonished and then outraged when Rodney had tried to explain that not only was John not allowed to be in the military as a flier, but that the revelation of his true nature meant he would be kicked out of the military and imprisoned, and Ronon had been succinct but vocal about his opinion on U.S. laws about fliers ever since, forcing Teyla to try to talk him down. Woolsey, clearly torn and sounding more tired than he should have been, asked that he--asked that they all--stay out of it. The law was clear, and the SGC directive even more so. There was nothing any of them could do.

Rodney, meanwhile, had clung to the hope that once on Atlantis, he’d figure out a way to fix things.

Once on Atlantis, none of John’s team could get near him.

The SGC orders allowed Bates, as the head of the Shifter Recovery team, to throw John in an isolation room restricted to the Shifter Recovery Team members only. Everyone was in turmoil, and John—

Rodney looked down at John imprisoned in the secure infirmary. John, who was still being kept unconscious, while their medics did God knows what, poking and prodding while being languidly guarded by the strike force team. Downed, by Bates of all people, who had been able to bring enough manpower over to deploy one team to ten of the alpha sites he had rightfully assumed it most likely John would run to before running a scan to find John, and who had acted as quickly and efficiently as any Marine could, ordering each gate under surveillance and using a trap so elementary and primitive--in Rodney’s words--that all the elegant static and EM interference he’d attempted hadn’t mattered. 

John was probably better off unaware, thought Rodney, watching the team of medics bustle around taking tissue and blood samples that John hadn’t consented to. Ronon, when he’d realized, had taken out three of the Marines--guys he didn’t like, anyway, he said after--before they got him with a stunner and he went down, twitching and helpless. And now, Ronon was beyond angry. Ronon obviously didn’t get it. He’d suspected Sheppard was a flier for a while, he’d told Rodney, hadn’t been able to pinpoint why, but hadn’t thought anything of it; hadn’t mentioned it to anyone simply because he hadn’t thought it worth mentioning, and because if Sheppard wanted to sneak, that was his business. On Sateda, he said, fliers had been admired, prized, and there had been a whole battalion of them in the army. Satedan women even enjoyed sleeping with a flier with the hope of getting pregnant—flying babies were the best. 

For his part, Rodney couldn’t get past his panic long enough to be angry. Rodney thought that he was in shock, and he wasn’t even the one with the problem.

Shifters had no status, under American law. They couldn’t hold rank, they couldn’t enlist, they couldn’t vote, they couldn’t bear witness, they couldn’t own property. 

They weren’t people, and officially, they didn’t exist. 

They simply weren’t permitted to.

***************************************


	5. When the Wind is Southerly

***************************************

_**Chapter 5:** _

_“When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”  
\--Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2_

***************************************

  
[](https://imgbox.com/f43Qqnq3)


“Why,” yelled Rodney, when he came to visit John down in the cells the next day--a permission granted by Woolsey, who’d argued policy and procedure with Bates until he’d won. Once given the go-ahead, Rodney was off like a shot. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped. Hell, I could have married you—would have married you, and then you’d be Canadian—” 

Rodney was scared. John could see it. Panicked and terrified, and he hadn’t stopped speaking since he’d arrived. 

“—and for that matter, why on earth would you join the military—the military, of all places, when—”

“I—” began John, and stopped. It had seemed so clear at the time. He hadn’t escaped on his own, and they’d changed his identity, twice; hidden him and shown him how to hide. He’d become really, really good at hiding. But there weren’t a lot of places to go, back then. The military, despite the risks, offered sanctuary—food and shelter and family, and few questions asked, particularly once his funds had run dry. A free ride to college, if he’d wanted it, and John had. But most importantly, for John, the chance to fly. Because if he hadn’t been able to fly with his own wings—

John has always just wanted— _needed_ —to fly.

He didn’t think about the fact that Rodney had just offered to marry him. He knew exactly what that meant and knew it wasn’t what he wanted. Maybe, maybe sometimes he’d dreamed of things he couldn’t have—but like Ronon, he generally knew better. Having Rodney marry him out of obligation would have been unbearable. He couldn’t think about it—Rodney offering his name, offering him sanctuary, offering him _pity_. 

Everything he’d ever wanted, and nothing at all.

Except he couldn’t go back to the labs. He just couldn’t. He couldn’t even think about it. 

(Before his escape, before they’d helped him escape, he’d been there almost three weeks, and he hadn’t been sure, if he’d stayed, if he’d have survived another night. John had been quite young, but the scientists didn’t have access to many subjects past infancy, anymore—babies were tagged by hospitals at birth, if they were carried to term and born in the hospital; not many shifters snuck into the U.S. anymore; and most shifters snuck out rather than in. So, until he was sold—and they knew time was limited—subject CD614639JELX was a rare opportunity.

All John knew was that the experiments were frightening, and painful, and sometimes really embarrassing, and he’d really, really wanted his parents. 

He’d cried for them, in the nights, those nights he was allowed to be alone to sleep. Those nights were the better nights, really.

On the nights he wasn’t left alone … those nights didn’t bear thinking about.)

“John. I don’t know what to do,” Rodney was saying now. “Please tell me what I can do.” 

And John looked up at Rodney, who was usually so solid and sure even when he was bitching and yelling. But Rodney wasn’t yelling or bitching now. He just looked impossibly sad and freaked out and somehow small, and John wasn’t sure what to say. 

“Do you know what they’ve decided?” asked John, desperate for information, and knowing Rodney had been upstairs until a few minutes ago, with the rest of the senior staff, sorting out the fallout. 

“I — Elizabeth would’ve fought to keep you here, even Carter and O’Neill might have... but everyone is worried that Woolsey will eventually accede to whatever the IOA determines, and Bates has a lot of clout. He wants the SGC to let him take you back to Earth. Probably as soon as the _Daedalus_ arrives, since Ellis was ordered away by O’Neill to deal with some Ori business, apparently, even if Caldwell is taking his sweet time. I’d never thought of Caldwell as the sympathetic sort, but he really did love Elizabeth.”

“How soon?”

“Six days, at last check.”

That soon. “Right,” he said instead, calmly. Rodney didn’t need anyone adding to his panic. For his part, John was in this weird state just beyond panic. “They must already be past the Carina Nebula by now, then.”

There was a moment of silence. It was bizarre, John thought. He’d never thought he’d see the day when Rodney—Rodney!—was at a loss for what to say.

Rodney cleared his throat, and John smiled and let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Yeah. Hey, I’ve got some chocolate leftover from Jeannie’s birthday gift. It’s really good. Want some?” 

John’s appetite had fled as soon as what was happening had sunk in, and the pain of the beating his first night had made it worse. He hadn’t touched his breakfast, and he’d tried at lunch, but even the smell of food made his stomach roil.

He’d seen what the scientists had done to the adult shifters, and his memories of what he’d endured as a kid had been bad enough. The older ones had it worse. Not all of them had survived the experiments. They were often harder to sell--and the government did sell them (usually abroad, the Asian markets were especially lucrative)--but the shifters that were sold were almost always drugged, and often remained that way until they died.  
(Guards talked a lot, in every facility, and even at thirteen, John hadn’t been deaf, nor had he been stupid.)

John had, miraculously, escaped once before. He wouldn’t again. John had no illusions about that: they’d taken his DNA, matched his records, realized that he wasn’t undiscovered—he’d merely been on the run. Now that they knew what and who he was, as soon as he went back, he’d be considered a flight risk. Flight risks were shackled, and sometimes—sometimes their wings damaged, sometimes their Achilles cut as well. That was a cost benefit evaluation, because it apparently made them less marketable, according to the threats he remembered from his childhood captivity. On the other hand, he would most likely be a very dramatic object lesson for the military, and so maybe they wouldn’t care all that much.

Rodney was still holding out the chocolate, like some kind of ward against whatever darkness was coming.

“Sure,” said John aloud, forcing a relaxed grin onto his face. “Jeannie always sends the good stuff. Might as well have some while I can.”

It took twenty-three minutes, Rodney glaring the whole time, for security to go through the process to pass a piece of chocolate through. 

John ate the chocolate, wished for a beer, and didn’t think about how the melting dark smokiness felt like ashes in his mouth.

***************************************

“Promise me something,” said John dully. It had been three days. Aside from these brief visits, and the few hours daily when he disappeared into blue skies during the recovery team’s medic’s visits (Dr. Dobson, Rodney had said, not that it mattered), there was nothing to distract himself from the absolute nothing of time passing in his cell, nothing at all.

Well, unless you counted the guards. John really didn’t. 

(Normally, prisoners were allowed to refuse medical treatment, but John certainly wasn’t in that position. The guards took care not to leave marks anyway, but John wasn’t really sure why they bothered. Dobson didn’t care--his visits often left John pale and shocky and were, in many ways, worse than his interactions with the guards--and it wasn’t like John was going to complain to Carson, who somehow was also dropping by daily, where the guards could hear them.)

The few Marines posted as guards--hand-picked by Bates--wouldn’t talk to him, even to respond to his goads. Made sense not to talk to the dead man walking, he supposed, but the voice in his head had gotten old real fast. And while John was pretty good at brooding, right now it was too much. Of his team, only Rodney was allowed to visit him, and then not for long—he was only allowed an hour of supervised visit time, each day. No one knew what a shifter might do with longer, what he’d say, what he’d incite—and it was a stupid rule, Rodney had said repeatedly—he was still the same guy they knew _last week_ , goddamnit, but Rodney had never had much respect for John’s Marines, as he called them. Besides, prejudices were what they were. And Rodney admitted that most of the military contingent on Atlantis was in fact deeply conflicted, their training convincing them that once the threat was known it must be contained, must not be treated as human, must simply await transport to be eliminated, warring with their respect for their former military commander.

How lucky they’d all been that nothing had happened while a shifter was in command, Bates’ team kept reinforcing, even with John. Anything might have. 

“That must have been what happened with Colonel Sumner,” the guards stated to John, confided to Rodney when he came. “The real reason he killed him and woke the Wraith. Admit it. Can’t trust a shifter.”

It made John want to scream, and he could see his own frustration echoed in Rodney’s eyes.

Rodney was the bright spot in his day—nothing new there, though. (It went without saying that the “aliens” weren’t permitted to visit. And although John would have welcomed almost any company to break up the silence and the monotony, aside from his team, there was no one John really wanted to see.) John often complained about Rodney’s endless babbling out loud, but John had always welcomed Rodney’s words, welcomed their time together. He’d hung out in the labs whenever he could, no matter how Rodney complained he was distracting from Rodney’s Very Important Work, making time for John no matter what he’d been doing. And John ... didn’t want to ruin it. He wanted to wait, he swore he wouldn’t ask, but … in the end, he couldn’t help it. The panic was just too close to push away, and the only thing sustaining him was the desperate hope that Rodney would understand, would agree, would save him the way he always had, even if this time the only way wasn’t a great one, even if this time he wouldn’t much care for John’s methods. Rodney understood best case scenarios, and worst ones. 

“Promise me—” repeated John, but Rodney interrupted him.

“Anything. You know I’ll do it. We’ve been—Ronon has—”

“No,” said John. “No. You can’t risk yourself. They’ll—Atlantis _needs_ you.” And she did. Even if John, with his special ATA gene could make Atlantis sing, they now knew how to get ten more like him. Carson’s experiments had figured out that much--the ATA gene was part and parcel of shifter genes, and so it was likely every shifter had them, even if everyone with the ATA gene wasn’t actually a shifter. Shifters lived freely in many countries, and Rodney even knew a couple in his scientific circles. Carson had even complained, the other day, that it would have been a lot easier to figure out if John had been up front about his status, and John had nearly stopped breathing in his effort to bite his own damn tongue. Nevertheless, it would be easy to replace him, after he was gone. There were no shortage of applicants, on both Atlantis and at the SGC, for his job. But Rodney—Rodney, with his brash confidence and his experience and knowledge, both in the field and in the labs, was irreplaceable. Rodney was invaluable to the expedition. They couldn’t—Atlantis couldn’t—afford to lose him. And John loved Atlantis, almost as much as he loved Rodney.

He remembered the feel of Rodney’s skin against his own as his body had slammed into his, the bulk of him held securely in his arms, slowing his descent. John didn’t want to imagine a world without Rodney.

“Tell Ronon, please. I don’t—” He risked a look up at the guard, and then tapped against the glass, quiet, his body shielding his hand from the camera. _I can’t go back. I can’t go back *alive*._

Morse code, but of course Rodney got it. Of course he understood. 

“Please Rodney,” said John, but Rodney was already shaking his head in denial.

“No, no, you can’t—there’re other options, you don’t—no, no!” And Rodney was standing, and walking away, and his time wasn’t even up yet, and there John went, he just _had_ to ruin it.

“Please,” called John, as Rodney banged for the guards. 

John wasn’t ready for Rodney to leave. And he wasn’t prepared for Rodney to say no.

“Please, John,” said Rodney, just as the guards arrived, approaching John to restrain him, not taking any chances. (John knew Atlantis like the back of his hand, and all he needed was an opening; he’d tried the first day. It hadn’t worked. Since then, security had been beefed up, and John was a lot weaker now than he had been. He wasn’t averse to trying again, but he believed in always having a plan B.) “I know it’s a lot to ask, but please. Please, please trust that this is for the best.”

“Please,” he heard, as the door swished closed, but he didn’t know which of them said it, the other begging for understanding. 

_Please._

***************************************


	6. Behold

***************************************

**_Chapter 6:_ ** __

_Behold, you are beautiful, my love;  
behold, you are beautiful;  
your eyes are doves.  
\--Song of Solomon_

***************************************

  
[](https://imgbox.com/kviyI89U)


“I can’t,” said Rodney, on the sixth day. John had grown despondent, now—he was beyond terror, beyond despair, and he was simply waiting. He’d visibly lost weight, or so Rodney and Carson kept telling him. The guards had reported that he screamed and vomited in the dead of night—of course, they’d reported this to Bates, to explain why they’d labelled him unruly, after yelling at him about the disruption and mess, but that was scarcely the point. 

The nightmares were back—well, they’d never left, but were definitely worse and so much harder to hide in an exposed cell than they had been in private quarters (and even if anyone saw, no one was surprised by a soldier who had the odd nightmare after a tour), on top of the video feed and detention logs that documented everything he said and did (and which he knew Rodney had hacked; there was no way Rodney would allow him that kind of privacy. John appreciated it, actually.) 

Carson was concerned. Carson, who actually was responsible for monitoring all detainees in Atlantis (and as such, Woolsey had finagled Bates into permitting Carson to monitor John’s “condition”, shifter or no, under reprimand or no) had threatened him with an I.V. and suicide watch other kinds of dire things that John adamantly refused and didn’t really worry about, because it scarcely mattered. Four days from now, he would be long gone, and I.V. drips were the least of what he would have to contend with. Carson would get to do the autopsy if he died on Atlantis, at least, which John supposed was marginally better than having someone else do it, although he’d be hard-pressed to explain why.

He didn’t think Carson really quite understood his situation, actually.

Rodney had long since passed mere worry, it was clear. “I’m sorry, John, really I am—but I can’t.” 

Maybe he should’ve asked Ronon when he’d had the chance, thought John. Maybe it had been a mistake to ask Rodney, but—but he needed this. _I can’t go back._ It was the only thing he knew. The only thing he had to hang on to. If Rodney wouldn’t do it—

He turned his left hand over in his lap, gazing at the crooked line of his little finger when it hadn’t healed right. He had been twelve, and they’d taken him into the lab that day, promised him ice cream, and then broken it with a hammer before he’d even understood what they were doing. He hadn’t expected it, or braced for it, and they’d made notes as he screamed and cried. Afterwards, they’d smiled at him and asked him if he could describe the pain. He’d kicked the doctor that had asked. Hadn’t mattered. The pain of the untreated break had stolen his appetite and later, he’d found out that they’d just wanted to see if his bones would heal faster or differently than a human. 

Their conclusion? They didn’t. 

His finger had never healed right. He escaped before they could move on to the second phase of their experiments, which they were holding off on until he passed puberty. 

The second phase was all about his wings, which wouldn’t properly manifest until then.

 _Marry me_ , Rodney tapped. That again. “And claim political asylum. I know—I know what it means for your career, I know it would mean you could never go home again, but—but John. Please. You wouldn’t be safe, but you’d be safer, anyway.” _I need you to be safe._

The Army used shifter soldiers, as did the Marines, John knew. Not, obviously, as pilots in the Air Force—but covertly. Only those with the highest security clearance were aware. Shifters--a very few, John had no idea how the selection process worked--were used to infiltrate, to do reconnaissance, to scope out dangerous enemy territory—all the places drones were too clumsy, or too difficult, to use for intel. Shifters were far more versatile—they just needed to be properly controlled. Of course, no one ever spoke about it. It was a closely guarded secret, but it was true. Aside from being exotic pets, controlled, chipped shifters had a lot of practical applications, and if one was too damaged, there was no need to expend resources to fix it. And John was already trained.

They spent a lot of time in the lab on mind experiments, on chip experiments aside from the ones about tolerances and just the ones trying to figure out how and why a particular shifter had what kind of wings, and what they could and could not do. John’s opinion, any shifter’s opinion, and whether or not the experiment would cause them to suffer, never mattered. Although sometimes, John was convinced the scientists just did things because they could, and not because they didn’t already know the answer. 

Besides, controlling soldiers, especially expendable ones? Was something the Army was extremely invested in learning more about.

John had been difficult to break, even as a kid. The scientists found him particularly fascinating.

To be both openly gay, free, defiant, and a shifter? The U.S. military would hunt him down. After they court-martialed him for being a deserter, he’d be lucky if all they’d do was detain and shoot him.

He wasn’t going to be that lucky.

What he said was, “I’d lose Atlantis. It’s under the control of the IOA. They’d never let me stay.”

 _I’d leave with you,_ tapped Rodney, and John almost laughed, filled with so much affection for Rodney on the other side of the bars, so honestly worried for him, so desperate to help. But Rodney could never leave Atlantis. Not willingly, anyway, and certainly not for the likes of John.

“You can’t,” he said, smiling to soften the words. “You wouldn’t. Atlantis needs you.” It did. Way more than it needed John, even with his gene and his military command.

“Atlantis needs you too! _I_ need you.” And Rodney believed it, in that moment, even John could see that—but believing something didn’t always make it true. Even when it was Rodney. 

“You’re not even gay.” John had no idea why they were wasting precious visit time on this stupid conversation. Except he didn’t know what else to talk about. Didn’t know what else Rodney would be willing to talk about.

“How would you even know?” countered Rodney, so earnest, and John smiled again. If Rodney had been so inclined, he’d have known it. He’d have shown it. And then they could’ve—

John had been in love with Rodney since the day he’d let him shoot him (for the first time), but he hadn’t known it until Rodney had (willingly!) walked into an insatiable black energy cloud. John had long ago, however, learned to stop wishing for impossible things.

“I’d know, because I am.” What did he have to lose, now?

On the other side of the glass, Rodney stared, and then began sputtering. “You’re--you--you never--how is this even--”

But it didn’t matter, not now, and already he’d had more than he’d hoped; hell, he’d had more than most shifters could ever dream of. He felt, somehow, a sense of peace. He’d had this, had this friendship, this—this love, and he wasn’t ready to lose it, not now, but he never would be. He’d been so, so lucky to get what he could. John had never had all that many choices, and for all of that, even if it all ended now—he’d done pretty well, even if he did say so himself. He didn’t know what he’d ever done to get this lucky: ferrying O’Neill, coming to Atlantis, meeting Rodney … he’d hit the jackpot.

He wanted to tell Rodney, but somehow, the words caught in his throat, got lost on his tongue, and he couldn’t say them. He wished he could.

He looked at Rodney: his wide forehead, his unhappy frown, his expressive blue eyes dark now with worry. Looked at what he was offering, trying to save John.

 _In another life,_ tapped John instead, smiling still, soft and secret. 

He put his hand up against the glass, and after a moment, Rodney put his own broader palm up as well, matching up with John’s more slender pilot’s hand. Only a few days more. 

Looking at Rodney, John smiled wider. John didn’t have any regrets, and he hoped Rodney knew that.

***************************************


	7. Hold Fast

***************************************

**_Chapter 7:_ ** __

_“Hold fast to dreams  
For if dreams die  
Life is a broken-winged bird  
That cannot fly”  
\--Langston Hughes, Dreams_

***************************************

  
[](https://imgbox.com/c1iJK2Xn)

It was early, early in the morning on the ninth day, but John wasn’t sleeping. The _Daedalus_ was late. It wasn’t a blessing.

He tried to remember, tried really hard to remember instead the sound of the waves off the east balcony, and tried to use the memory to drown out the screaming in his head from his last nightmare. 

The screams had been his own.

He wished for many things. He wished he could see Atlantis, walk the halls, just one last time. Have lunch in the mess hall with his team, relaxed and easy; play golf on the mainland with the Athosian kids who he was coaching in his spare time; spar with Teyla when he was on his game; play chess with Rodney because it was fun to watch him turn red when John kicked his ass. 

Soar freely over Atlantis, with the sun on his wings and the spray of salt-water in his face. 

Today was his last day. They were going to come for him tomorrow, and he could only hope. Hope that Ronon understood, hope that one of them—any of them—would take pity on him, allow his death to be a quick act of mercy rather than a long, drawn out act of cruelty that would contribute to more atrocities in the future. 

Teyla maybe understood. Ronon he was pretty sure would. Rodney—

Rodney seemed to be dying a little, watching John, and for his sake—

For Rodney’s sake, he hoped that whatever they did, they didn’t let Rodney know, made sure Rodney wasn’t around, told him whatever lies they needed to so that Rodney could forget him and carry on. For Rodney’s sake, this needed to be over.

He knew that Rodney loved him, but like a friend loves another friend. That was all. John might have imagined other things, but Rodney was nothing if not loyal, with a healthy belief in his own ability to solve problems. But politics and greed weren’t problems to be solved, at least weren’t problems that were within Rodney’s skill set to solve. 

John rarely allowed himself to imagine what if. Like Ronon, he’d learnt that doing so wasn’t productive, leading only to sorrow and anguish and bitterness. But it was his last day, and so he let himself indulge, just a little. 

To imagine if Rodney loved him. Like more than a friend. Like—

Like someone he wanted to share quarters with, share a bed with, share a life. To laugh with and argue with over more than just duty rosters, like—

Like someone Rodney would have chosen to marry—like Katie, like Jennifer, like Carter. Like—

Like John loved him. 

And now he was becoming ridiculous. Even had Rodney been inclined to men, or inclined John’s way, Rodney would more than likely steal his coffee and chocolate, pick a fight with him, and kick him out of their shared quarters within three days. John would sulk and sleep on the couch and would want to make things up, even if the fight was half Rodney’s fault, but would have no idea how and so that would be that; he’d move back to his own room and they’d spend time not looking at each other in Senior Staff, as they had the last time they’d had a big fight over the fact that Rodney cheated at chess and John won anyway and his coffee ration was forfeit fair and square for the full ten days not seven because Rodney was a sore loser who drank more than his ration all the time anyway.

And John had no idea how, in that instance, Rodney would have dealt with the knowledge that John was a shifter, or how he even felt about shifters at all on more than just a theoretical scale. It was one thing to not want shifters to be subjected to cruel medical experiments, and another still to share a bed with one (and yeah, some people liked the novelty of it, just as a one off), much less be with one in a friendship or relationship or — 

(Marriage or any kind of stable relationship or life was really kind of an ultimate pipe dream for most of his kind, including marriage with non-shifters. His parents had loved each other, but they’d been special, different, so rare that some of the other shifters hadn’t believed him when he’d told them. There was no genetic component to having a shifter baby, the government kept reiterating that. Of course it was a lie, and everyone in the shifter community knew it.)

John smiled. It would have been more than he could ever have realistically expected, and the fantasy was still really nice. It had been really kind of Rodney to offer, even though Rodney clearly hadn’t quite thought things through.

Carson usually came to him early in the day and despite how much he hated it, Carson was at least familiar, and so John would have welcomed the distraction, today of all days. But there was nothing today. It was quieter than usual: the calm before the storm. The Marines guarding him hadn’t even removed the bucket in his cell like they normally did before breakfast, his tray had been pushed through without words or even a face, and the smell seemed especially sharp today. He hoped they’d give him a second to request its removal when they came to remove the tray. 

He glanced at the breakfast they’d given him and felt his stomach lurch. He’d thought they might have changed it up, today--last meal and all--but no dice. If John could have imagined a breakfast less appealing to him, especially when his stomach was feeling delicate, he’d have been hard pressed. It was the same as it had been every day in here—thin plain oatmeal mixed with water, a fanqui - which was a type of sour acidic fruit the Athosians liked for breakfast (rather like a grapefruit), a glass of water and a hot herbal tea made from a common weed on the mainland. He wouldn’t have minded sweet oatmeal, actually. He liked it as long as it was thickened with cream, but he hated this plain unsweetened gruel they gave him. Grapefruit he’d never much liked, and the acid of the fanqui was definitely too hard on his stomach now. He had sipped as much of the water as he could stand--at least it was tepid, and not cold--and took a few sips of the bitter tea, which actually was good at settling his stomach, as terrible as it tasted.

Idly, sipping the earthy-tasting tea, he hoped his team had gotten his coffee ration. It would have been a shame to waste it, or to have it go to someone like Kavanaugh. (He knew the kitchen staff were in charge of the luxury item rations, and expedition members got to give up their rations for others if they wanted, but John didn’t have that privilege, now. But, if he had, he’d already worked out that Rodney would have gotten most of his, with fractional amounts to Zelenka and also Lorne, who was a pretty dedicated coffee connoisseur, judging by the sneering arguments Rodney got into with him. John hadn’t given it much serious thought, until he’d landed here, how the whole distribution system worked, but since he had, he’d been convinced it was remarkably inefficient. He had been able to come up with a whole algorithm in his head since then--which he really needed to run by Rodney, when he dropped by. It was very important, somehow, that Rodney make sure the proper program was set up, after he was gone, to avoid any coffee discrepancies in future.)

Rodney came to visit a couple of hours after delivery of the breakfast. Early for him, actually. John wished they’d taken it away; Rodney’s face when he looked it over wasn’t pleasant, even if he didn’t say anything.

John was grateful. He didn’t think he could have managed Rodney spending his visit scolding him. Not today.

“So,” said Rodney. “I tried, but today all you get is me. Sorry.”

“Oh,” said John, trying not to be disappointed when he had no right to be, but a bit sad. He’d hoped that they’d have allowed a couple more visits, today. And he’d have thought Carson would have wanted to wish him good-bye, at least. They weren’t friends, but Carson sometimes at least acted like he cared. Plus, a few visits broke up the day. After Rodney left—and he didn’t have much time, Senior Staff was at 0900 and it was almost 0900, now—the day would be a long one. If he had to have a last day, he had hoped it would be a bit better, to be honest.

“That’s a terrible breakfast," said Rodney, looking over at the tray. “For a last breakfast, that is simply not acceptable. You couldn’t even have gotten a muffin?”

“I’m not hungry anyway,” said John. What did it matter if he ate? He had no need to keep healthy, anymore, but yeah, if he’d had to choose a last breakfast, he’d have wanted cake. Or cake’s poorer cousin, the muffin, would have done in a heartbeat.

Except he hadn’t been able to keep much down, lately.

“Who can eat with that smell, anyway,” muttered Rodney. “I don’t know how you can stand it—you! Yeah, you, too tall and too —whatever, you need to remove this, this is—how can anyone—no, it’s not like he’s going to attack you, he saved your life three weeks ago why the hell would he attack you, are you an idiot, yes, thank you, oh my god is that blood—”

John tuned it out, Rodney’s ranting washing over him, peaceful, like waves breaking on shore. He soaked it in, knowing that this was the last rant he’d ever hear, so he almost missed it when Rodney used the moment the barrier was down to reach out and touch John’s arm, briefly. 

Rodney’s hand on his was warm, his grip firm and sure, even through the thin cloth of his prison uniform. He hadn’t realized, until he felt Rodney’s warmth, how cold he’d been. 

He shivered.

“It’s warm on some of our better trading planets, now. You won’t even need a blanket, there,” said Rodney, nonsensically. 

“Good?” said John, confused and a bit sarcastic. 

“I just--I mean,” stammered Rodney, jumping up. “I was just thinking. It’s cold in these cells.” 

“Yes,” replied John, and meant it.

***************************************


	8. Wherever You Go

***************************************

**_Chapter 8:_ ** __

_But Ruth said: “Entreat me not to leave you, Or to turn back from following after you; For wherever you go, I will go; And wherever you lodge, I will lodge; Your people shall be my people, And your God, my God.  
\--which quote has nothing to do with birds, but is from the Book of Ruth_

***************************************

  
[](https://imgbox.com/L3cM6hbf)


John wasn’t sleeping when it happened. It was 1443, which was just around the time of shift change in Atlantis when he felt it, a familiar tingle preceding the teleportation beam. One moment he was there and the next—

The next he was in the back of Jumper One. He’d recognize it anywhere.

Carson and Ronon were staring back at him, Ronon grinning sharply as John fell on his butt on the hard floor, although John could see the relief overlaying the amusement.

Carson was neither amused, however, nor relieved.

“Get him up!” exclaimed Carson, “don’t just sit there like a great big lump, help the man up, let me get a look at him!”

John froze. “Why is he here?”

Ronon stood up, and glanced an angry look at Carson, who cowered satisfactorily. “Bates was about to go after him, so he begged. He’s a doctor. We know he can lie. He’ll treat you or I’ll kill him.”

“It’s okay, John,” said Carson, with his reassuring voice, as if John was a small child, or a frightened patient. Or someone Carson hadn’t been experimenting on for months. “You’re perfectly safe now.” 

“Don’t touch me,” snapped John. 

Ronon looked at Carson, before reaching down a hand, slowly. John took it, letting the other man use his strength to haul him carefully up. Once he’d gained his feet, he deliberately stepped back toward the bench and sat down heavily.

He didn’t understand. Or, he did, but also not.

Ronon took one look at him sitting there and then planted his feet, standing over both him and Carson. Carson looked up and opened his mouth to speak, but at Ronon’s glare and slowly crossed arms, shut it and simply turned back to John.

“He’s not staying,” said Ronon, looking right at John. “We’re dumping him, but he’s going to make sure you’re okay, first. If you want.”

Carson swallowed before visibly gathering himself. It actually made John feel a bit better. “If you let me check you over,” said Carson, “I’ll do what I can to treat your injuries.”

“I _don’t_ want,” said John. “I’m fine.”

Beckett had the grace not to push his luck. He took a step back. “I brought some pain killers, and can recommend one, if you need it. Do you have any pain?”

“The night guard beat him two days ago, and that wasn’t the first time,” Rodney called back from the pilot’s seat. “I saw it on the feed I hacked. Pretty sloppy—they didn’t even bother to loop or wipe it.”

“Is that right?” asked Carson, looking at John closely. John shrugged. “I have a medical scanner, a small one, that could tell me if there’s any damage. With your permission, I’d like to use it. You can see the readout yourself.”

John shrugged again. He needed to be ready to move, and that sounded innocuous enough. Ronon’s looming helped.

“Okay,” Carson said, when he was done, pulling out a couple of blankets and handing them to Ronon, who wrapped a shivering John in them. “You’ll need surgery, more than likely, but for now, I can make you more comfortable with what I have here.”

“I—” began John, and swallowed. “Get the fuck away from me.”

“Now, John--” began Carson.

“Do what he says,” said Ronon flatly. “Or I throw you out an airlock.”

“I thought the jumpers didn’t have--”

“Whatever,” said Ronon.

Carson swallowed. “All right. I’ll be -- over there, if you need me.” He began packing up the contents of his bag. 

“I forgot to mention, you’ll need to keep the shirt,” called Rodney from the front. “I put the tracker on the sleeve. We should keep it until I can take it off.”

“You—” John swallowed. “You put a tracker on me?” His voice was shaky, and he couldn’t stop it. He was—he started—

“No, no, no John,” said Carson, turning sharply and focussing on John. “Just something so the teleporter could get you. Not—not that kind. Rodney—Rodney needed something to fix the beam on. So we could get you here. That’s all. Nothing more.”

“McKay disabled it,” added Ronon. “He disabled ours, too.”

Just a removable tracker, though—one on his shirt, the shirt in the bag, that was okay. That was like his radio, like the sub-Q everyone had. He breathed out and forced himself to focus.

“Rodney was able to find and hack your government file,” said Carson. “It was … informative.”

He bet it was. He swallowed. 

Carson continued. “I knew there were different treatment protocols for shifters, and you have different caloric requirements at times, but there isn’t--isn’t as much available information in Britain. It doesn’t mean as much, there. So I didn’t think much about it, when I found out at first, even though I didn’t note it in your file.”

John almost laughed. It was, in some respects, the only thing that had ever mattered about him. Aside from which, it was a bold faced lie. He’d been injured off-world, had been brought back unconscious. He’d been pretty careful until then, but Carson hadn’t said anything in the infirmary. He remembered Carson coming to his quarters, after. Carson had known exactly what his status meant.

“John, I can’t—I know—I know a bit of what you’ve—well, there was clinical data in the file Rodney shared with me. About you. And other—other information. We don’t—there’s no time to talk about it now. But we should, at some point. I — John, you need to calm down.” 

He had no idea what had happened to the jumper, why they’d depressurized, why there was—

A sting in his arm, Carson had injected him with something, something that—

“What’s going on back there?” yelled Rodney, and suddenly Ronon was in front of him, pulling Carson bodily away, and it was really hard to breathe, and Carson was yelling to take it easy but, but he—

Black spots were dancing in front of his eyes, there wasn’t enough air, and then—

Then, he manfully passed out.

***************************************

He was lying flat on his back on something hard. “Sheppard,” said Ronon, when he cautiously opened his eyes to the ceiling of Jumper One’s back compartment. He hurt. A lot.

“Where are we?” he asked. “What--”

“Not supposed to tell you. Doc said--”

“Ronon.”

“You’re supposed to stay calm.”

“I need to talk to Rodney.”

Ronon’s frown grew deeper. “He’s not calm. Not around you, or you around him.”

“He is! I am! I can do calm!” He practically roared. 

He drew in a quick breath at Ronon’s raised eyebrow. “I can. Look, look, how calm I am.” 

Ronon looked supremely unconvinced. 

John sighed. “Please, Ronon,” he said, letting his exhaustion show, and not having any strength left into charming anyone into anything. “I need to know.” 

Ronon sighed as well. “Fine,” he said, before calling out, “McKay! Sheppard wants you!” John could hear Rodney’s high-pitched squeak from where he sat. Ronon looked back at John while grinning irrepressibly, and said, “Sorry, force of habit.” 

John waved him off, not even having the energy to be amused. Rodney appeared a moment later.

“I assume this is because Sheppard won’t just relax and do what he’s told, am I correct? No, don’t answer, of course I am. I’m going to make this fast, because Teyla’s watching Carson and the ship’s on autopilot, and if we crash and die I’m blaming you. Okay, the short version is that right now we are headed to M9P-347, the planet right before we got to the one that almost made you their king, the one with the cool tech and open-minded women. We need someplace with enough medical tech so that Carson can actually save your life—you idiot, you’ve got broken ribs and some internal bleeding and your faith in us is touching, except for how it’s really very not, but more on that later, except from Ronon, who is pretty pissed at you for not trusting us enough earlier to not get into this mess in the first place, although I kind of am too, and also Radek, actually, Teyla I’m not sure about—”

“Rodney,” snapped Teyla, popping her head in from the front. “The Colonel still needs his rest. The short version, please.” 

“Not a colonel anymore,” he muttered, his voice bitter despite himself, and he made himself swallow it down. “What—” He tried to sit up. 

When the world stopped tilting and things resolved themselves, only Rodney was there, his mouth turned down and worry lines across his forehead. “Don’t move again, or Ronon really will kill Carson. You’ve got internal bleeding, an infection, had a panic attack, are seriously dehydrated and more than a little on the skinny side right now.” And Rodney waved a hand in irritation. “You fainted, and if you do it again, Ronon really will kill him.”

“I won’t,” said John, his voice hoarse and his mouth was really, really dry. “I didn’t.” He would kill for—

“Passed out, then,” said Rodney scornfully. John felt a bit affronted, to be honest. “In a very manly way. Whatever. I’m not allowed to give you anything, tell you anything, or do much of anything except watch you and keep you quiet, calm, and still. But I’m going to give you a little water, and tell you what’s going on, if you promise not to move, shut up, Carson. Deal?”

John nodded, his eyes trained on Rodney, willing him to understand his sincerity. 

“Stop it,” snapped Rodney. “I’m your _friend_. I’m — ” He stopped, looked away. After a long moment, he looked back, his face and voice calm again. “Even if I wasn’t your--friend, I’m Canadian. Look, we had Hermiod help us out—”

“The guy with no pants?”

Rodney merely gave him a deeply unimpressed look and continued on without pause. It made John smile, a very little, despite how screwed he was. “…He thinks humans are sort of primitive at the best of times, and this whole shifter nonsense you Americans are on about sort of takes the cake, as far as he’s concerned. He won’t tell, but even if he did, who’s to care? All he did was give me the science.”

John couldn’t even begin to process that. “But where exactly are we? And what’s the plan? I don’t—what’s going on?” 

He hadn’t meant to sound as lost, as plaintive as he did, but he couldn’t—he needed to get up, he needed to—

And then suddenly Rodney was there, with a hand on his chest holding him in place, but another on his shoulder to ground him, saying urgently, “Please, John. Please don’t. Look, let me just— I’ll explain, I promise, just calm down.”

He forced himself to stop struggling, to calm down, to at least hear whatever Rodney—who looked more freaked out than John felt, and that was saying something—was talking about.

“Look. I mean it. Nothing’s changed, for me anyway. As I’ve told you—you’re my, my friend, and I don’t have very many of those. Actually, fuck that, you’re—you’re as close as I’ve ever had or am ever going to have to — to real family, other than Jeannie, and the rest of the team. I’d—John, none of us are going back. Not unless you can. Well, Teyla will go back to New Athos, if she can, although Kanaan and Torren have already left quietly, anyway, so she’s good for a bit. We covered our tracks—don’t worry, they can’t trace us, and if they do—if they do, we can hide. They won’t find us. You’re safe for now. We can stay away as long as we need. As long as you need. Maybe not forever, but for now, and then we’ll—I know you probably don’t want to live in a cave forever, and I — I kind of promised Jeannie I’d keep in touch, but—for now, this will work. We’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, I promise, John. I know—last time I asked you to trust me, it didn’t—I know it didn’t go that well, but I’m asking you this time, and I promise it will be different. I promise, John. Please. Trust us. Trust me.”

John blinked at the flow of words—not unusual for Rodney, but it was—it was a lot. “You--you left Atlantis?”

“We all did. Me, Teyla, Ronon, Carson. Well, Carson might not have, but Bates wanted to prosecute him for his failure to report and he wanted off, and—you’re in rough shape. After reading your file, and watching you deteriorate in the cells and not being able to do much about it, knowing what was in store, we decided we could use him--he knows you, he knows how to treat you, and his voodoo is better than others’, I’ll give him that. He owes you that much, at least, and we'll ditch him as soon as we can. Zelenka wanted to come too—he really did—but we convinced him to stay behind—it might be useful to have an ally, in case—well, in case. And besides, without me, Atlantis needs at least Zelenka. He’s no me, but he can plod along in a pinch—”

“You left—you all left—” He couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“The thing is, John—I’m trying to tell you. We’re family. All of us. I know—I know what you asked, but—but we couldn’t. I couldn’t. Hell, none of us could. I know I didn’t ask if this was—if this was anything you wanted, being stuck here with us like this, but I hope—I hope you don’t mind. At least not too much. And that you’re not mad. Or, if you are, I’m sorry. Don’t blame the others. It was all—I just couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

And John had nothing to say to that. 

***************************************


	9. Together We'll Fly

***************************************

**_Chapter 9:_ ** __

_“I believe that together we’ll fly  
I believe in the power of you and I”  
\--I Believe, Nikki Yankovsky_

***************************************  


[ ](https://imgbox.com/SN2f6Bp3)

  
  
  
“Sheppard,” said Ronon, the next time he cautiously opened his eyes. He was lying in —in a bed, soft and warm, and the lighting was muted. Nothing hurt, and he felt—

“Don’t even think about getting up,” added Rodney. “You’re not fine, whatever you might think. At least the people here have some medicine, and some technology—it’s not much, pretty primitive, actually, but it was apparently good enough to stitch you up and keep you quiet, which was a feat, actually--”

“We’ve all been very worried,” interrupted Teyla, “even if Rodney has been the most vocal about it.”

John chuckled quietly. “Rodney is always the loudest. Sure. I’d like to—to —”

“I’m sure you shouldn’t, whatever it is,” said Rodney. “These doctors might be primitive, but the one in charge of you scares me.”

“She’s only five feet tall,” said Ronon, his eyes crinkling.

“Did you see the look in her eyes when she said what would happen if Sheppard so much as tore one of her stitches? Did you?” cried Rodney, clearly affronted.

And then they were all talking at once—until it was mostly just Rodney talking continuously while Teyla smiled indulgently and Ronon simply endured, all of their words flowing over him like home. 

“How are you, John?” asked Teyla after a time, and even Rodney was silent, as they all waited for his reply.

“Carson?” asked John.

“Gone,” said Ronon simply. “Sent him off through the gate once you were stable, and before jumping here.”

“Where did you—” began John, but Ronon cut in. 

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Secondary site,” said Rodney, after a minute. “Not hostile, but not particularly welcoming either. He’ll survive, even if it takes a while for Atlantis to find him. If they bother.” Rodney sounded angry, even if his words were even.

Sometimes John forgot that Rodney and Carson had been friends, long before he’d ever even heard of Atlantis. That kind of betrayal cut deep.

“No,” said John, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. “I mean--”

“Oh! Here. M9P-347. Hospital,” Rodney explained. “You remember--they healed me when--well, neither here nor there. It was the first decent and discreet one we could think of, although we took you to Brestil--their technology is both Ancient and advanced, the price was right, and their world has a pretty decent shield--for the actual surgery. We’re not staying, so don’t worry about it. As soon as you’re better, we’re making tracks.”

“I think we should leave now,” John blurted. “I can’t—it’s too easy for them to find us here. All it will take is one call, and Woolsey’s not an idiot. He knew I was injured, and there aren’t too many places where I could get treatment. They’ll be coming, if they’re not here already.” 

“I never thought about that,” said Rodney, rolling his eyes. “That they might just come in, guard the gate. You’re right. We should move. Why don’t we run there, huh?"

“You weren't strong enough,” said Ronon bluntly. “Doc said we risked undoing the surgery if we weren’t careful, and then there would have been no point to any of it. We thought it was worth the risk.”

“Let’s at least get out of here. We’re an open target here, and I can’t relax knowing it. At least let’s get somewhere harder to find,” John growled, agitation seeping into his bones as he tried to sit up.

“We’d planned to check the gate anyway,” soothed Rodney, pushing him back down easily, and Rodney being soothing was so _weird_ it threw John enough to calm him. “We’ll know if there’s an issue when Teyla and Ronon go through. They’re aliens, and they aren’t subject to our laws, so there’s not much the military can do to them here--Kanaan left Atlantis with Torren for New Athos before we did, I had Lorne take them back, just to be sure. From there, they left again to somewhere only one of Teyla’s cousin’s knows, presumably somewhere safe and secure. And if anyone else from Atlantis is here, or on their way, they’ll let us know. It’s under control, John. 

“John?” asked Teyla again. “Do you think you _could_ be ready to move soon?”

“Absolutely,” said John definitely. “I’m better. Hungry, I think. I can’t wait to—”

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” burst out Rodney. “You’ve just now woken up! They’ve had to repair your spleen and you’re still on high-dose antibiotics for the infection you picked up in detention—I know Woolsey wasn’t aware of your treatment in there, but it’s still no excuse for those kinds of things! So don’t--”

“McKay,” rumbled Ronon. “It’s Sheppard. He’ll move if he needs to.”

“McKay,” drawled John at the same time. “Are you kidding? For this? I’m ready.”

“Yes,” stated Teyla calmly, placing one small hand on Rodney’s arm but addressing John. “We know. But--we don’t need to just yet, and it’s better you take the time you can, now. Once we start, we can’t afford any setbacks.”

“No. But we cannot afford to waste time, either,” John snapped back.

“There will be no lingering but I think waiting until nightfall would not be unwise,” said Teyla. “And we need the time, anyway.”

“We’re on Paranda,” said John, his mind moving far slower than he liked. “Wait, won’t the Parandians report us? They have an alliance with Atlantis—“

“That’s why we’re not staying. From here, we’re headed to M4C-965, the planet with the sinkholes, unbearably hot summers, tech-destroying EMP fields and completely shielded caves. They do have a very small population, despite the minimal arable land and frequent Wraith presence, and most of the planet is uninhabitable on top of that, so it’s not exactly a top vacation spot. We had decided it wasn’t useful as an alpha site because of the interference with our radios, and also because of the weather and the sinkholes and the fact that the only livable spaces were already populated. But Teyla tells us the population that exists is friendly, unsophisticated, peaceful, and their system of caves is really extensive, useful in hiding both from the Wraith and Atlantis. We’ll have enough rations to last us a while, without borrowing, but in a pinch, we can help them, and they’ll help us. There’s not enough food or decent weather for us to want to stay long-term but for now, it’s exactly what we need. You—all of us, together, we’ll be fine there, for a while at least, until I can work on something better.”

“Ronon and Teyla intend to go on ahead; Ronon is twitchy anyway.” He heard Ronon snort and mutter something indistinct at that, but Rodney ignored it. “After checking out the gate, they’ll scout a decent place for us to camp out, somewhere unoccupied and preferably uncharted; we’ll leave here and rather than dialling Atlantis, like the Parandians expect, we’ll be making another series of jumps. Ronon and Teyla will head back and meet us at the gate so Ronon can help with you. The docs here would’ve preferred longer before putting you through that, but this entire thing is a clusterfuck, so we’re making do. The plan is for us to go in undetected, and hide out in the caves, until something else pans out.”

John could see, now he was looking, the extreme exhaustion on Rodney’s face, in Ronon’s and Teyla’s, the anxiety and the fear reflected in all their gazes. 

“And, for now, they can’t find us. Even Zelenka doesn’t know where we are, though he dialled us through the first time and knows we’ve gone. He’ll tell Kanaan, Lorne, just so they know we’re safe. We skipped around enough that we’re effectively untraceable, even though it wasn’t the best thing for you, the condition you were in. We just didn’t want to take chances. The Parandians don’t suspect we’re on the run, and we hopefully won’t stay long enough for them to realize we are. I hacked their systems, so we’re keeping an eye on communications, just in case Atlantis figures it out and contacts them looking for us, in which case we’ll have to step up the program or at least move us somewhere a bit more secure. I’ve got some things on the go, so hopefully we won’t be cut off from Earth and Atlantis forever, but for the moment, any contact is a risk. That’s it, then everything else is being taken care of. I know it’s hard to believe, but for right now, everything really is okay.”

Okay. It was a lot to take in. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t remember everything ever being actually okay. It wasn’t now, no matter what Rodney said. They were in an extremely vulnerable position, and worse—John had pulled the rest down with him. What they’d done—breaking him out—was a crime. They were all fugitives now. 

“Right,” said Rodney. “More on that later.” John forced his eyes open to Rodney’s worried frown.

“Ronon, I believe it is time. We shall be back as soon as we are able. Rodney, I believe it is your watch. Do you think you could--”

“Keep him calm and hydrated and fed. I think I can remember those instructions. Genius, remember? Now go! Sheppard will be fine.”

Teyla smiled at him, before coming up and touching his forehead with hers. “I do not doubt it, Rodney. We’ll see you soon.”

And the other two left, leaving John and Rodney alone.

“How are you really feeling?” asked Rodney, looking a bit nervous as he pulled a chair up to the bed.

“Fine, Rodney. Better. How’re you?”

“Me? 

“Yeah, Rodney. You. You left Atlantis, apparently, and now you’re on the run. I don’t even know about Ronon, he’ll probably land on his feet, and Teyla probably wants to get back to Torren, but for right now? I’m asking about you.”

“I have some broth,” said Rodney, turning away, his movements a bit flustered. “You said you were hungry, didn’t you? You should--”

“Rodney,” said John, reaching out a hand to wave Rodney down, somehow. “Sit down.”

And Rodney sat. He didn’t say anything a minute, but he took John’s flailing hand. And then he sat there, looking down at their joined hands. 

His own narrower hands entangled with Rodney’s, which were strong and capable and warm where they touched cold skin.

John didn’t pull his own away. Even after a whole minute.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“No.”

“About the shifter thing or the gay thing.”

“Bisexual, probably more accurate, but no.”

“I just--I figured that these were the kinds of things you’d tell me, because you’d know it wouldn’t matter--well, it would, but not like you apparently thought. Not to me.”

“Well, I know that _now_ ,” said John, snorting a rueful laugh.

“You really are an idiot. I knew that already, though.” Rodney sounded disparaging, but his grip on John’s hand was firm and steady.

“You left Atlantis for me.” John tried to keep the wonder out of his voice, but he suspected he failed.

“I really did. Guess that makes me an idiot too, huh?” Rodney’s eyes were shadowed, as if he thought John would laugh at him. John tightened his hand instead.

“Kinda. You could go back, you know. Woolsey would take you back, if you asked, and --”

Rodney threw up his hands, letting go of John’s, before grabbing the bowl and thrusting it at John. “Eat your soup, John.”

“I was just--” protested John, even as he sat up to take the bowl Rodney was thrusting at him. He kind of missed the hand holding, if he were honest. It had been … nice.

“Working, can’t hear you,” and Rodney was busying himself to snag his tablet, “gotta get rid of that tracking device, I’ve disabled it for now of course, but I’m so glad Wallace is dead, he’s got a lot to answer for. The design is super insidious---”

John looked over. “Does all of Pegasus have 5G? How does that work, exactly?”

Rodney didn’t even look up. “Very funny. If you’re done, go to sleep.”

John grinned and set his broth aside, sliding down in the bed, his mind spinning. He wasn’t sure he could get any rest before they had to go, but he owed it to his team to try anyway. The bed, at least, was warm. With Rodney’s voice filling the room and Rodney’s hand on his ankle grounding him, between one breath and the next he surprised himself by falling asleep.

***************************************


	10. This Moment to Arise

***************************************

**_Chapter 10:_ ** __

_“Take these broken wings and learn to fly.  
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.”  
\--Blackbird, Beatles_

***************************************

  
[](https://imgbox.com/48Hd9elY)

M4C-965 was a backwater hole without much to recommend it, the trip there full of pain and drugs and being carried by Ronon at one point in a dizzying and painful, nausea-inducing trek, and the cave itself was as uncomfortable as promised once they arrived. John remembered little of how they got there, Ronon doing his best to shield John from the worst of it, Rodney hovering, while Teyla took up the slack for John and did her best to keep them all on track, moving forward, and not succumbing to Rodney’s loudly-vocalized pronouncements of doom.

The cave Ronon and Teyla had decided on was huge—a large front “room” with a good-sized front entrance providing natural light and ventilation, and smaller, more shielded alcoves in back where they could sleep, with some kind of natural sound dampening qualities, which worked surprisingly well and essentially gave them each their own “bedroom”. From there, they had access to the interior tunnels, and while they hadn’t mapped those yet, John was aware that the system of caves and tunnels stretched for miles—easy to disappear into, if you knew where you were going. 

John didn’t see how they’d be able to stay here for any length of time, given their limited supplies. But right at this moment, sitting in the cave entrance, wrapped in a blanket against the early-morning chill, warm and—thanks to the miracle of really damned good Pegasus drugs—relatively pain-free, even he had to admit that the twin sunrise—gold and violet and rose and sparkling turquoise—was _glorious_. 

“Don’t know how much you remember from yesterday, but we’re all set,” said Rodney, coming up quietly behind him, tossing him a granola bar and a bottle of water. “We didn’t bring much, actually, and I’ve spent half the night trying to figure out if there’s any way we could get any kind of communications relay going, but so far, nothing. And sorry—we couldn’t bring any of your things, so you’ve had to leave everything behind, but—

“It doesn’t matter.” John smiled. Even McKay’s yammering wasn’t going to ruin the beauty of this perfect morning for him.

He was free. Even if it wouldn’t last, for right now—he wasn’t alone, and he was free. He didn’t think he’d ever had that, his whole life. Even if this morning was all he ever got—my god, it was worth it. 

Rodney sat down heavily beside him. John could feel his body heat, even through layers of cloth and an inch between them. He shifted surreptitiously closer, soaking it up.

“Look, I’ve looked into it. The best thing would be for you to marry me and, through me, claim political asylum. It will give you some measure of protection, if we’re found, or if we decide to return. We can’t stay here forever.”

“This again? And that’s my only option? A shotgun or a wedding, literally?”

“Would it—would it really be so bad, marrying me? I mean—worse than—worse than —”

“Doesn’t it bother _you_? What the hell, McKay?”

“I know—I know it’s not what you’d have chosen, but—I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t restrict you, or anything, it’s _Canada_ , for God’s sake, it’s not like I could do that if I wanted and I know—I know you couldn’t pilot, but you could—you could fly, there are—there are places, just for shifters, and—”

“Rodney. It’s not—”

“—and I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with, you know—I mean, we’d have to—they don’t take shifters as refugees, I checked, so we’d have to make it look legit, but I wouldn’t—I know you don’t—”

“Rodney.”

“Because — I would never force you into anything. I’m not like that.”

“You think I don’t know that already? I wouldn’t—Rodney, I wouldn’t even consider it if I thought you were. There are things worse than death.”

“Yes. And if you don’t agree, you’ll find one of those things,” said Rodney darkly.

“Rodney. It’s not the sex. It’s not that. I’m not _scared_ of you touching me or something,” he said, putting as much derision into the words as he could manage. It might not have been enough.

“Then. Then—then what? I—this is your life, Sheppard. John. I can’t—I—you can’t _ask_ me to let you—”

“So what? You’ve always wanted to get married, have kids, do the white picket fence thing. I know you have. So what, you’d give all that up? Just like that? Destroy your life? For me?”

Rodney took a deep breath, and looked right at John. “Yes,” he declared softly. “I would. Just like that.” 

John looked away. “I never wanted your pity,” he ground out. He didn’t--he couldn’t trust what he thought he saw. 

What he wanted to see.

Silence was heavy, until John dared to glance back, and what he saw almost floored him.

“Trust me,” said Rodney, holding John’s gaze, “I wouldn’t be destroying my life, and it’s not pity I feel.” 

The clear desire in Rodney’s eyes, along with the words, rendered John speechless. He swallowed. “I—I didn’t—I never—”

Rodney held out a hand. “I asked you, when all this started, to trust us. To trust _me_.”

John stared at Rodney’s outstretched hand. It didn’t move.

Slowly, John reached out and took it.

Rodney’s hand closed around his own, larger, broad-fingered, warm. He pulled John’s hand towards him, raised it up, pressed a kiss into the palm. His lips were soft, but John could swear they seared an invisible brand onto his skin.

“You don’t,” John stammered, “—I’m —” 

“I’d have said something years ago, if I thought I was anything you wanted, but you were military, and you never made a move.”

“I--why would you--”

“Well, you’re kind of beautiful, to start with,” smiled Rodney. “It’s pretty obvious.”

John made a noise before he could stop himself, and Rodney’s heated gaze slid smoothly into a very annoyed glare. “Oh, please. You’re ridiculously physically attractive. You know you are, enough women throw themselves at you.” Then his voice softened. “I bet you’re stunning when you fly. One day I’d love to watch you without you know, worrying about imminent death, either yours or mine. The only one who’s never been able to see that has been you, well you and your idiot government. It is criminal what they do, what they want to do to you.”

“You never said anything either,” said John instead, sounding way more defensive and petulant than he’d meant.

“Look, John, I didn’t want--I know you’ll think I’m taking advantage of you, of this situation. I’m sorry, I really am. Because I wouldn’t want that. And if you want other options, we’ll find them. I will disable the tracker. I’ve already done it temporarily, of course, but I’m close to finding a permanent fix, even if I can’t dig it out from your spine without major surgery and advanced medical care. Those things weren’t meant to--”

“I know. They used to joke about it, but it wasn’t really a joke.”

“Yeah. Anyway, you gotta tell me what you want.”

“I think that should be pretty obvious,” said John. “Considering.”

“Only you could think that,” huffed Rodney. “Would it kill you to actually say anything, ever?”

“Hey, you’re not doing this because you think you owe me, or anything, are you, because—”

“What? No! You are the most--” Rodney got up, yelling, and paced across the cavern, before coming back and flopping down beside him. 

“Okay, listen up, you moron. We are at best even, and at worst you are so indebted to me you couldn’t ever hope to catch up in the saving each other’s asses game, so no. And sure, I always like the idea of sticking it to the SGC, but I wouldn’t do it at your expense. Or, to be honest, mine. I never wanted to save the world, anyway. Or, well, I do, because of the fame and glory and shit, but I’m selfish enough to not want to do it at either my expense or that of someone I love. This is about … well, I suppose I’m being a crass opportunist, but I could just disable all your trackers and we could go find some obscure farming planet with rules about hospitality and a workable DHD and drop you off, because Teyla at least can’t stay on the run and away from her family forever, and eventually the SGC will at least reduce the number of resources devoted to locating us, but--”

“You could go back. If you wanted.” His words hung in the air. Rodney was just staring at him. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to stay, Rodney. They’d take you back if you asked. And they’d certainly take you back if you turned me in.”

“Let’s suggest that to Ronon, shall we? I knew it. You really _are_ brain damaged.” Rodney was staring at him in horror.

“I’m serious! If it’s just the —I mean—doesn’t it bother you? I’m not—if you want to save someone, there are others, there, probably smarter, faster, prettier, _younger_ , God—”

“Yes, Sheppard, there probably are. Just as there are people—children, even—on many worlds we can’t save from culling. I can’t help them, and I can’t care about them. I can’t save everyone, but I _can_ help you. I love you, you, even if you are brain damaged, and I need you safe, and that’s what I care about. I can’t save them, but I won’t lose you.”

“You--”

“Yes, you absolute fucking idiot. I love you.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I never really thought about this, and when I did, I never imagined I’d have to force you. I had—I had plans, for the first time I’d ask you, for our first date or whatever, if we’d ever had one. I had plans, but now I’ve backed you into a corner, and your choices are terrible. This isn’t what I had ever wanted. But the system won’t change. Not for you, not for me, not for us. Not today, anyway, and not soon enough. Look, Canada and the U.S. are economically dependent on each other, and Canada will overlook a lot of things, including human rights abuses by the U.S. on its own citizens, as long as it doesn’t affect us directly. But it’s different in Canada, once you have status. I have lawyers working on it, on the Canadian end, because I need you to be protected, if they ever do find us, or we need to go back. I‘ll make sure you have options but for now, this is the only way. This is the best way. Please.”

“You want me to take a stand,” said John. 

“I guess. I mean, that’s not why--but, yeah. I want you to be able to stop running.”

John looked out over the fading sunrise. “So … that’s what you want for me.” John closed his eyes. “And what do _you_ want, Rodney?”

“I think I’ve been pretty clear, actually. Honestly, did you hit your head or something? Still drugged? Or did you just decide on a case of stupid today? Seriously. But once again, for the slow kids in the back: I love you. I want to stay with you. I want to marry you. Let me.”

John opened his eyes. 

“Trust me, John. I know it’s hard for you, I know this is hard. I’m asking you to have a little faith. Please.” Rodney curved his palm around his own jaw, the skin soft and barely stubbly at all under his fingertips as Rodney placed his own larger hand over top. “I know it’s not what you might have wanted, but you could be safe, John. And we’d be together. Please.”

John had never been safe, his whole life. Discovery was a risk; both his parents had drilled into him how precarious his existence was, and then, once they’d gone—

Rodney’s eyes held promises John wasn’t even sure Rodney knew he was making. Safety, peace, love, a life. 

Everything.

“It’s not what I wanted, no,” replied John. “It’s everything I could never hope to have. It’s everything.”

“Don’t lie to me,” said Rodney sharply. “I know how much you loved Atlantis. It was your home, more than it ever was mine.”

“Sure,” said John, “I did. I do. But it wasn’t just about the city, you know. And anyway, I still have the ATA gene, and maybe, maybe one day you’ll find a way to get us back. But until then—I have you, I have Teyla and Ronon and — I never thought I’d have that again. Family. You guys gave up Atlantis too.” 

“It wouldn’t be home without you. It wouldn’t even be Atlantis without you. Even if Zelenka and his band of fools manage to keep it running for longer than a week.”

“Eh, have a little faith yourself--you trained them after all, right? Besides, we’re here, together, with a roof over our heads and food to eat. It’s perfect. Or it would be if we had burgers.”

Rodney snorted. “Oh my god, burgers. Or steak. I’m never getting _steak_ , John. At least, not for--Ronon told me that those little rodent creatures on P2X-436 kind of taste like steak, he had some when he went back to Earth with you for--well, he said it tasted almost the same. John, you’re--you’re really okay with this?”

“Rodney … I didn’t have anything left on Earth, and Atlantis—Atlantis gave me everything, but most of all, it gave me you guys. And before it was—just being near you, it was enough, it had to be enough. But now you’re—” he turned his hand in Rodney’s, lacing their fingers together. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, Rodney. It’s _more_. I know it’s not fair to you, but it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Rodney laughed, suddenly, tears in his eyes, as he turned his head and pressed another kiss into John’s hand like a promise. “Only you could pretend that a cave and an MRE were everything you ever wanted.”

Except for how it really was.

Rodney was still kissing his hand, his tongue tasting the inside of a wrist. John shivered, feeling remarkably like a Victorian maiden, and being powerless to do much about it. “Say yes, John,” breathed Rodney into his skin.

And so John did. 

In the end, it was as easy as flying.

***************************************

End! Thank you so much for reading!

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[](https://imgbox.com/EspE5eYj)

**Author's Note:**

> ***************************************
> 
> Once again, a thousand thanks to nagi_schwartz, who very kindly agreed to read a very early draft of this and provided invaluable comments to a newbie who hadn’t even watched most of the episodes, gently pointing out a lot of the structural and characterization flaws, and then read the later still-rough draft willingly yet again, and provided much-appreciated encouragement all the way through;
> 
> Thanks also to popkin16, who read a very very early unfinished draft, and helped me brainstorm, and was so good too about ushering me into this fandom;
> 
> Thanks to ushobwri group on dreamwidth, and the mcshep discord, as well as all the dreamwidth and LJ comms still active in this fandom, for support to someone returning to writing (I haven’t posted in a long while, who knew it was this nerve-wracking that I had to plan scheduled RL events after posting to channel away my anxiety) and super-new to the fandom (I only “discovered” SGA a couple of years ago, apparently everyone I knew had watched it when it was actually on TV, what was I doing in the 90’s, anyway?); 
> 
> Many thanks to Kakushigo (Deca), for being a fantastic mod (both for this fest and the chat) and running a super relaxed and supportive big bang, which had the kind of deadlines that were really structural guidelines, and who answered every nervous inquiry with reassurance. I had so much fun, and thank you so much for all your hard work in running this;
> 
> And finally, eternal thanks to the talented and lovely skyblue_reverie, who let me drag her into my shiny new fandom, watched all five seasons of SGA with me over the last few months, and with whom I dissected, discussed, and argued through every episode. And who hand held and supported and cheered me on, as well as completing a thorough beta for me (twice, when her comments got deleted the first time around, I KNOW), red lining whole paras and leaving me comments such as “ugh, more vomit” and “this again?!” which made me laugh and re-write, AND providing me with quite frankly stunningly beautiful art, just for me and tailored perfectly to enhance this fic, which as I said above served as both incentive and inspiration, and a guilt-inducing bribe to get this fic done at some point in time approximating the deadline, all while assuring me that I could, I would, and there was no pressure;
> 
> Without you all, this fic would not have been written and while it’s cheesy and probably does not matter much in the grand scheme of things, I had fun finally writing something that I got around to posting, for the first time in at least a couple of years or more, it afforded me the excuse to gaze upon Sheppard repeatedly, in the guise of research, and look I finished my first SGA fic! All errors are mine, and I know it. You all really did your best, and it took a village to even get this much out of me. You are all the reason I love fandom so much. 
> 
> And, finally, for any of you gentle readers that did plod through this story, thank you. I hope you enjoyed reading it even half as much as I did writing it. Feedback/comments, long or short, positive or negative or even indifferent, and the pointing out of typos I should fix, will all be valued and appreciated. 
> 
> ***************************************


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